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DEAD SHOT;
OR,
THE WHITE VULTURE.
A ROMANCE OF THE YELLOWSTONE.
BY ALBERT W. AIKEN.
NEW YORK: BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
(P. N. No. 2.)
THE
WHITE VULTURE
CHAPTER I.
FORT BENT AND THE WAGON-TRAIN.
It was at the close of a bright May afternoon; the last rays of
the sinking sun shone down gayly upon the broad prairie, through
which, like a great yellow serpent, rolled the turbid waters of the
Yellowstone river--a river that took its rise at the base of the
Rocky Mountains and then flowed eastward, until it poured its current
into the great Missouri. Just at the junction of the Yellowstone and
the Powder rivers, the sun’s rays shone down upon the whitewashed
walls of Fort Bent, a frontier post, located at the confluence of
the two rivers, to guard the wagon-trail to Montana. The advance of
civilization has now caused the fort to be removed, but at the time
at which we write it was the last halting-place for the wagon-trains
bound for any of the small settlements nestled here and there upon the
golden-streaked rocks of Montana. After leaving Fort Bent, the trail
run by the banks of the Yellowstone, two hundred miles or so, then
turned abruptly north toward the Rocky Mountains. This was called the
southern trail. The northern route was by the bank of the Missouri.
Fort Bent was garrisoned by a single company of United States troops--a
hundred men or so. Under the shelter of the fort, a few trading-houses
had sprung up, designed to supply the wants of the emigrants in powder,
ball, blankets, or any of the little articles necessary for a journey
of three hundred miles through the wilderness. For, as we have said,
after leaving Fort Bent, the way led through the fertile valley of the
Yellowstone, a valley abounding in rich grasses, the little clumps of
timber that fringed the river being filled with game, the stream itself
well stocked with fish--a country that only needed the strong right
arm of civilization to bloom and blossom like a fruitful garden.
The wagon-trail through this lovely country was not without its
dangers. Near Fort Bent, the fierce Mandan tribe of Indians flourished;
their hunting-grounds stretching from the Big Horn river to the little
Missouri. Sometimes, too, wandering bands of the Sioux, the ruthless
marauders of the Missouri, extended their forays as far as the Powder
river. Deadly foes were they of the Mandan tribe.
And then, after following the wagon-trail along the bank of the
Yellowstone, passing where the Big Horn river emptied its waters,
swollen always by the melting snows of the Rocky Mountains, into the
first named stream, we enter upon the dominion of the Crow nation,
the Indian kings of the north-west--the tribe whose warriors wear the
claws and teeth of the grizzly bear as necklaces around their necks,
sign and symbol of their prowess--the greatest fighting men of all the
tribes that roam the great wilderness of rock and prairie from the Gulf
of California in the south, to the Columbia and Missouri rivers in the
north--the warlike tribe that has fought the powerful “Blackfeet” for
ages, and yet more than held their own against them--the tribe whose
war-cry is a terror to the gold-diggers of Southern Montana.
And so, after passing the junction of the Big Horn and the Yellowstone
rivers, the old mountain men, the prairie guides, prepare for danger;
and few wagon-trains, unless large in numbers, pass through the valley
and turn northward to Montana, without losing stock or men on their
passage.
Now that we have described the scene of our coming story, we will
return to Fort Bent, where a wagon-train is at the moment resting,
preparatory to daring the dangers of the march through this wilderness.
The fort and its vicinity presents a lively scene. The soldiers are
chatting with the members of the train, inquiring the news from the
East and eagerly perusing the newspapers that have been brought by the
emigrants.
The train was composed of some twenty wagons, containing, perhaps,
sixty souls all told, men, women, and children. There were twenty-three
men in the party, besides the two guides, a force sufficient to beat
off any ordinary Indian attack, if handled skillfully, of which there
could be but little doubt, for the two guides--the captains of the
train--were men skilled in Indian warfare, and had a reputation as
Indian-fighters second to none on the upper Missouri.
The two guides stood together by the foremost wagon, leaning on their
rifles, surveying the scene before them with a listless air. They were
known as Abraham Colt and David Reed--called Abe and Dave, commonly, by
their friends. Abe was the elder of the two, a man of about forty-years
of age. Tall and straight, he stood nearly six feet high; but weighed
not more than a hundred and fifty pounds--all muscle, bone and sinew,
no useless flesh about him. A professional prize-fighter would have
looked at him in admiration. From his earliest boyhood he had been
accustomed to the wild life and dangers of the prairie. His father
had been a guide before him, and had reared his son to his calling.
The father had died on the prairie, shot through the temple in a Crow
attack on a wagon-train--had died in his son’s arms, almost instantly
after receiving the ball. From that hour Abe had sworn an oath of
vengeance against every red-skin in whose veins ran the blood of the
Crow nation.
The story of the death of Abe’s father, and of the oath of vengeance of
the son, was of course well known to all the frontier-men; and he was
looked upon as a sort of a hero, for, since his father’s death, which
occurred some twenty years before the time at which we write, Abe had
encountered the braves of the Crow nation in many a desperate fight on
the prairie trail by the Yellowstone; and in every contest the guide
had been victorious; every time the Crows had attacked a train in which
Abe acted as guide, they had been repulsed with great slaughter; his
presence seemed to be fatal to them.
Abe would never have been taken by a stranger for the famous
Indian-fighter; there was no sign of the desperado about him. His face
was well browned by the prairie winds and the rays of the sun; his
eyes were large, and gray in color; his chin was shaven as smooth as a
young girl’s; his features were strongly marked and the deep wrinkles
about the eyes and mouth told of hard service and troubles. He was
dressed Indian fashion, in a hunting-shirt of deer-skin, trimmed with
porcupine-quills; leggings of the same material, fitting tightly to the
leg; moccasins, ornamented with little leaden tags, curiously shaped;
upon his head he wore a cap, formed of a portion of a coyote’s skin,
with the tail hanging down behind. His hair, black as an Indian’s,
was worn short and curled in little ringlets tight to his head. He
was a picture worthy the pencil of the artist as he stood leaning
carelessly upon his rifle, gazing upon the little groups before him.
One approaching him from the rear would have taken him from his dress
to be an Indian chief.
His companion, the other guide, was a young man, probably not over
twenty, called David Reed. His history was a strange one. A party of
United States troops, some nineteen years before the time of which we
write, had surprised a party of Blackfeet Indians encamped near the
head-waters of the Missouri. The savages had been on a raid against
the white frontier settlements on the upper Missouri, and the soldiers
had followed in pursuit. They surprised the Indians and a bloody fight
ensued; the Indians were outnumbered and nearly exterminated. After
the fight, the soldiers found a baby boy snugly wrapped in a blanket
near the Indian camp. From his dark complexion and from the outline of
his features, they concluded that he was a half-breed, possibly the
child of one of the Indian braves by a white wife, because it is a very
common thing for the Indians to carry off white girls in their frontier
raids and force them to become their wives. Why the child should have
been carried with the war-party contrary to the usual custom of the
savages puzzled the old Indian-fighter, who acted as guide to the
soldiers. He carefully examined the encampment, and finally discovered
the footprints of a woman. It was evident, then, that there had been
a squaw with the party, and possibly that squaw was one of the white
wives that the great chiefs sometimes have; though why the chief should
carry her on a marauding expedition was a mystery.
The soldiers took the child back with them to their post; the infant
was apparently a year old. The captain in command of the troops acted
as sponsor to the child thus strangely found in the desert, and called
it David Reed.
The infant grew apace. Years passed on: the child became a man and
adopted the profession of prairie guide, and was noted on the upper
Missouri as one of the surest shots and best guides in all the upper
valley.
In appearance, he was a fine-looking fellow, standing about five feet
nine, well proportioned and well built; his face was pleasing; there
was something noble about it--an air of native dignity, akin to that
of the red-skins; his eyes were large, jet-black and full of fire; his
nose long and straight; the chin, square and well formed, firm-set
lips, that showed resolution and strength of purpose; his bronzed face,
the high cheek-bones and jet-black hair, that slightly curled at the
ends, worn long and floating down over his shoulders, alone showed the
Indian blood.
He was dressed roughly. A red shirt, thrown open carelessly at the
neck and exposing his finely-formed throat; a pair of dark butternut
homespun pantaloons that had been cut open at the side and fitted into
the leg, Indian fashion; a pair of moccasins, which, from the peculiar
trimming, an old Indian-fighter would have pronounced to be of Sioux
manufacture; a belt of untanned deer-skin girded around his waist,
supporting a broad-bladed hunting-knife and a serviceable-looking
revolver, and we have the pen-picture of Dave Reed.
Reed had met the “Crow-Killer” in Montana, some three years before
the time at which we commence our story. A singular friendship had
sprung up between the two men, and from that time they never had
separated. Lucky was the wagon-train that obtained the services of the
“Crow-Killer” and young Dave Reed, as his friends called him, for a
trip across the upper plains!
“Does that fellow there belong to our train?” asked Dave of the
“Crow-Killer,” directing his attention to a man who stood apart from
all the rest near the bank of the river.
“Whar?” asked “Crow-Killer,” turning his eyes in the direction
indicated.
“That one there, wrapped up in the blanket as if he had the chills,”
and Dave pointed to a man standing near the river, with his back to
the two guides. The stranger was wrapped in a dirty red blanket which
completely covered him. On his head he wore a common black felt hat,
from under which long black locks fell down over his shoulders,
forming a striking contrast to the red blanket.
Abe took a long look at the motionless figure.
“Well, do you know him?” asked Dave.
“Nary time!” answered Abe. “He looks like an Injun, durned if he don’t.
He’s a powerful big feller, I should judge.”
Just then the stranger turned round and exposed a face a few shades
darker than that of Dave’s, but not dark enough to proclaim the owner
to be an Indian, or, if he was one, one much lighter in color than the
generality of his race. The face of the stranger was an odd one; high
cheek bones, the dark color, the flashing black eyes, no sign of a
beard--all these would proclaim him an Indian; yet, the long black hair
curled slightly at the ends, and was much finer than the usual coarse
locks of the red-skin.
As he faced toward the two guides, the eyes of the stranger wandering
listlessly over the talking crowd, Abe got a good full view of his face
and started in astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Dave.
“That man’s face!” answered Abe, still staring intently upon the
stranger.
“Well, what of it?”
“Why, he’s the perfect image of you!”
Dave now started in surprise, and turned his keen glance upon the
stranger. As Abe had said, save that the unknown was darker in color,
there was, indeed, a wonderful resemblance between the two men--the
same long black hair, curling at the ends--the same flashing black
eyes, the same expression on the face, almost the same size, and
features marvelously like those of the young guide.
“Yes, he does look like me,” said Dave, surveying the stranger with a
puzzled air.
“Like you! You couldn’t be more alike if you were run in the same
mold,” said the “Crow-Killer.”
“It is very strange, to say the least.” Dave spoke thoughtfully.
“Strange, you bet!” answered Abe, tersely.
And yet, at this very moment, to a close observer, there was something
else stranger than all, and that was the resemblance in the general
expression of the features that both Dave Reed and the stranger bore to
Abe, the “Crow-Killer.” Their eyes were black and his were gray, and
yet they _looked_ alike. Had they been clad alike, a stranger would
have taken the three for father and sons.
“He looks like an Injun, and yet he is too light colored for one,” said
Dave.
“Yes,” responded the “Crow-Killer,” watching the unknown with a keen
glance, “he ain’t one of our party I know. I guess he’s a stranger hyar
too, for he don’t seem to know any of the folks round. He don’t look
exactly like an Injun, but he may be one with white blood in him; that
would account for his light color.”
“I’ll go over and find out who he is,” said Dave.
“Go it, young hoss!” answered the “Crow-Killer,” “that’s a good idea.”
One of the corporals attached to the post at this moment approached the
two guides.
“Who is that chap over thar? do you know him?” asked the guide.
The corporal took a good look at the motionless figure, wrapped in the
gaudy blanket.
“I don’t know him; a stranger in our ranche, I reckon.”
“You have never seen him before then?” said Dave.
“I think not. I guess he’s one of the Mandan Injuns come in to get some
whisky or something of that sort.”
“He ain’t no Mandan,” said Abe, after another good look.
Dave bent his steps toward the stranger.