In one of those numerous narrow ravines of the Rocky Mountains which
open out into the rolling prairies of the Saskatchewan there stood some
years ago a log hut, or block-house, such as the roving hunters of the
Far West sometimes erected as temporary homes during the inclement
winter of those regions.
With a view to render the hut a castle of refuge as well as a home, its
builder had perched it close to the edge of a nearly inaccessible cliff
overhanging one of those brawling torrents which carry the melting snows
of the great rocky range into one of the tributaries of the Saskatchewan
river. On what may be called the land side of the hut there was a
slight breastwork of logs. It seemed a weak defence truly, yet a
resolute man with several guns and ammunition might have easily held it
against a considerable band of savages.
One fine morning about the time when the leaves of the forest were
beginning to put on their gorgeous autumnal tints, a woman might have
been seen ascending the zigzag path that led to the hut or fortress.
She was young, well formed, and pretty, and wore the Indian costume, yet
there was something in her air and carriage, as well as the nut-brown
colour of her hair, which told that either her father or her mother had
been what the red men term a "pale-face."
With a light, bounding step, very different from that of the ordinary
Indian squaw, she sprang from rock to rock as if in haste, and, climbing
over the breastwork before mentioned, entered the hut.
The interior of the little fortress was naturally characteristic of its
owner. A leathern capote and leggings hung from a nail in one corner;
in another lay a pile of buffalo robes. The rough walls were adorned
with antlers of the moose and other deer, from the various branches of
which hung several powder-horns, fire-bags, and bullet-pouches. Near
the rude fireplace, the chimney of which was plastered outside and in
with mud, was a range of six guns, of various patterns and ages, all of
which, being well polished and oiled, were evidently quite ready for
instant service. Beside them hung an old cavalry sabre. Neither table
nor chairs graced the simple mansion; but a large chest at one side
served for the former, and doubtless contained the owner's treasures,
whatever these might be, while three rough stools, with only nine legs
among them, did service for the latter.
The action of the young woman on entering was somewhat suggestive of the
cause of her haste. Without a moment's delay, she seized a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, and began to charge the guns, some with ball, others
with slugs, as fast as she could. There was a cool, quiet celerity in
her proceedings which proved that she was accustomed to the handling of
such weapons.
No one looking upon the scene would have guessed that Softswan, as she
was poetically named, was a bride, at that time in the midst of the
honeymoon.
Yet such was the case. Her husband being the kindliest, stoutest and
handsomest fellow in all that region had won her heart and hand, had
obtained her parents' consent, had been married in the nearest
settlement by a travelling missionary, and had carried off his pretty
bride to spend the honeymoon in his mountain fortress. We can scarcely
call it his home, however, for it was only, as we have said, a temporary
residence--the Rocky Mountains, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic
Circle, being his home.
While the Indian bride was engaged in charging the firearms, a
rifle-shot was heard to echo among the surrounding cliffs. It was
followed by a cry, as if some one had been wounded, and then there arose
that terrible war-whoop of the red men which, once heard, can never be
forgotten, and which inspires even the bravest with feelings of at least
anxiety.
That Softswan was not free from alarm was pretty evident from the
peculiar curl of her pretty eyebrows, but that the sounds did not
unnerve her was also obvious from the quiet though prompt way in which
she gathered up all the loaded firearms, and bore them swiftly to the
breastwork in front of the cabin. Arranging the guns in a row at her
side, so as to be handy, the girl selected one, laid it on the parapet,
and carefully examined the priming. Having satisfied herself that it
was all right, she cocked the piece, and quietly awaited the issue of
events.
The weapon that Softswan had selected was not picked up at haphazard.
It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, the
charge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt to
kill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest was
gentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for blood
and revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives.
After a time the poor girl's anxiety increased, for well she knew that a
whoop and a cry such as she had heard were the sure precursors of
something worse. Besides, she had seen the footprints of Blackfoot
Indians in the valley below, and she knew from their appearance that
those who had made them were on the war-path, in which circumstances
savages usually dismiss any small amount of tender mercies with which
they may have been naturally endowed.
"Oh why, why you's not come home, Big Tim?" she exclaimed at last, in
broken English.
It may be well to explain at once that Big Tim, who was the only son of
Little Tim, had such a decided preference for the tongue of his white
father, that he had taught it to his bride, and refused to converse with
her in any other, though he understood the language of his mother
Brighteyes quite as well as English.
If Big Tim had heard the pathetic question, he would have flown to the
rescue more speedily than any other hunter of the Rocky Mountains, for
he was the swiftest runner of them all; but unfortunately he was too far
off at that moment to hear; not too far off, however, to hear the shot
and cry which had alarmed his bride.
From the position which Softswan occupied she could see and command
every portion of the zigzag approach to the hut so that no one could
reach her without being completely exposed to her fire if she were
disposed to dispute the passage. As we have said, the hut stood on a
cliff which overhung the torrent that brawled through the gorge, so that
she was secure from attack in rear.
In a few minutes another rifle-shot was heard, and the war-whoop was
repeated, this time much nearer than before.
With compressed lips and heightened colour, the solitary girl prepared
to defend her castle. Presently she heard footsteps among the thick
bushes below, as if of some one running in hot haste. Softswan laid her
finger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might be
her husband. Oh why did he not shout to warn her? The poor girl
trembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of the
danger and the necessity for immediate action.
Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside,
peeped from among them. He was a savage, in the war-paint and panoply
of a Blackfoot brave. The spot to which he had crept was indeed the
nearest to the hut that could be reached in that direction, but Softswan
knew well that an impassable chasm separated her from the intruder, so
she kept well concealed behind the breastwork, and continued to watch
him through one of the peep-holes made in it for that purpose. She
might have easily shot him, for he was within range, but her nature
revolted from doing so, for he seemed to think that the hut was
untenanted, and, instead of looking towards her place of concealment,
leaned over the cliff so as to get a good view of the lower end of the
zigzag track where it entered the woods.
Could he be a foe to the approaching Indians, or one of them? thought
the poor girl, rendered almost desperate by doubt and indecision.
Just then a man burst out of the woods below with a defiant shout, and
sprang up the narrow track. It was Big Tim. The savage on the cliff
pointed his rifle at him. Indecision, doubt, mercy were instantly swept
away, and with the speed of the lightning flash the girl sent her charge
of slugs into the savage. He collapsed, rolled over the cliff, and went
crashing into the bushes underneath, but instantly sprang up, as if
unhurt, and disappeared, just as a dozen of his comrades burst upon the
scene from the woods below.
The echoing report of the gun and the fall of their companion evidently
disconcerted the aim of the savages, for their scattering fire left the
bounding Tim untouched. Before they could reload, Softswan sent them a
present of another charge of slugs, which, the distance being great, so
scattered itself as to embrace nearly the whole party, who thereupon
went wounded and howling back into the forest.
"Well done, my soft one!" exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leap
over the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even in
that moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy and
thankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected to
find her dead and scalped, if he found her at all.
Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining the
firearms and ready for action.
"Fetch the sabre, my soft one," said Big Tim, addressing his bride by
the title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day.
The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually light
and joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attacked
by overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to the
eccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfect
confidence in him. Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word or
look, she obeyed the order.
Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and a
slight smile played on his features as he said--
"I have good news for the soft one to-day."