THE CROWS ON THE WAR-TRAIL.
Early on the following morning the emigrants broke camp and started on
their march up the Yellowstone trail. Abe and Dave rode on before.
“That was a bold move of the Injun last night,” said Dave.
“Yes,” answered Abe; “I expected that he might be lurking nigh our
camp, arter I saw him in the afternoon. That was the reason that, when
you and the gal headed for the prairie, I followed. I kinder thought
that you would be so took with the gal’s bright eyes that you wouldn’t
be able to look out for yourself,” and the old hunter indulged in a
dry chuckle.
“I own that it was careless, but I didn’t think that the red devils
would ever dare to come so near our camp and the fort.”
“Jus’ so; but this ’ere ‘White Vulture’ has got a white man’s head on
his shoulders as to judgment and dash, combined with the deviltry and
cunning of the Injun. Why, if it hadn’t been for me, he’d have carried
off the gal as sure as my name’s Abe Colt. It was a bold thing an’ it
would have been successful if luck hadn’t ’a’ gone ag’in’ him.”
“One thing, Abe, puzzles me,” said Dave.
“An’ what is that?” asked the “Crow-Killer.”
“How he escaped after you clinched with him?”
The old hunter paused for a moment before he answered but after a
little while, he spoke:
“Wal, he said something that staggered me. I let up on the grip an’
then he slipped through my fingers jus’ like an eel.”
“What did he say?” asked Dave.
“Not much; only that he was the son of ‘Little Star,’” replied Abe, a
peculiar expression appearing upon his features.
“And ‘Little Star’ was the Crow girl that you married!” cried Dave in
astonishment.
“Jus’ so. If you remember, I told you I had a kind of a sort of a
feelin’ that it was ag’in’ my nature to hurt the ‘White Vulture,’
although he belonged to the tribe, not a red sucker of whom I ever
spared when I got within rifle-range of ’em.”
“Then the ‘Little Star’ must have been carried to the Crow nation and
married to one of their chiefs,” said Dave.
“That air likely; but a Crow warrior that I met onc’t at Fort Benton
on a peace talk, a brother of the ‘Rolling Cloud’--that’s the father
of the ‘White Vulture,’ that I killed--walked up to me an’ asked if I
were the ‘Crow-Killer.’ Wal, I expected a tussle thar an’ then, but he
only looked at me, an’ said in the Crow language: “The ‘Crow-Killer’
is a great chief; he is as strong as the white bear; he killed the
‘Rolling Cloud,’ but the Crow chief has a son, the ‘White Vulture,’ an’
he will take the scalp of the ‘Crow-Killer’; it will dry in the smoke
of his lodge, an’ the Crow nation will be glad. The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a
great brave, but when he is tied to the torture-stake, the Crows will
speak words in his ear that will make him howl like a dog--words that
will burn like fire;” then the chief walked away. Now, I’ve puzzled
considerably to know what those words air. I s’pose it’s something
’bout my Injun wife, the ‘Little Star,’ but I hadn’t any idea then that
the ‘White Vulture’ was her son, an’ it kinder considerably started me
when I hearn he was. I’ve a sort of suspicion now what them words air
a-goin’ to be, that’s goin’ to make me squeal. But then ag’in, thar’s
another thing that gits me: I never hearn of this chief--this ‘White
Vulture’--having any brother, but still t’other one mought have died.
Anyway, one of these days I shall find out all about it.”
“Yes, you’ll find out easy enough; just let the Crows get hold of you--”
“Jus’ so!” interrupted Abe, with a shrewd smile, “but I ain’t in a
hurry to have that happen. My top-knot is well enough as it is, an’
I don’t intend that any Crow shall lift my ha’r if I can prevent it.
I’ll give ’em pretty considerable of a tussle first. But, I say, you
took a long walk last night; did you an’ the little gal come to an
understanding?”
“Yes,” answered Dave, a smile lighting up his features.
“Wal, I thought it probable that you settled matters; but, I say, Dave,
don’t give the red devils a chance at you ag’in.”
“Don’t fear; but I did not think that there was the slightest danger.
I don’t believe that there’s another red-skin on the plains that would
have dared to attempt it.”
“We ain’t seen the last of him yet,” said Abe, gravely. “If we don’t
have a big fight afore we reach the head-waters of the Yellowstone,
then I’m a sucker an’ no Injun-fighter.”
“I agree with you,” said Dave, “but it will take a big party to clean
us out. We ought to be able to whip a couple of hundred red-skins at
the least.”
“That’s so, Dave. This fellow being around the fort looks mighty
suspicious; he was on a spying expedition to see how big a party we
were. He’s a long-headed Injun, is this ‘White Vulture’; he knows if he
can only flax out the ‘Crow-Killer,’ it will be a big feather in his
cap among his nation. An’ my opinion is, that he’ll try mighty hard to
do that; so we must keep our eyes open. I reckon they won’t trouble us
until after we get past the Big Horn river, but, arter that time look
out for lightning. In about two days, if I don’t miss my calculations,
we’ll have Injuns all around us, thick as fleas in a Mexican ranche.”
So, on went the wagon-train--Abe and Dave keeping a sharp look-out over
the rolling prairie.
At noon the train halted for a couple of hours for rest and food. At
two o’clock, the train was again in motion, the vigilance of the guides
increasing as they progressed further into the prairie waste.
During the noon halt, Dave had found time to exchange a few words with
Leona. He frankly and without reserve told her that danger was at hand,
that the train was liable to be attacked at any moment, and that at the
first sounds of alarm for herself and companions to lay down in the
wagon, the sides of which would afford some protection. Leona’s cheeks
paled a little, more, though, at the thought of her lover’s danger than
at her own.
“You will be careful, Dave,” she said; “be careful for my sake.”
“Yes,” he responded; “don’t fear, Leona. I shall come through all
right; only look out for yourself, that’s all, because it I thought
that you were needlessly exposed, it would take away half my courage.”
Leona, like a good girl, promised to be careful.
The danger of an Indian attack was known now to all the emigrants, and
as the train rolled on, the men looked carefully to their weapons and
prepared for the expected encounter.
Abe and Dave were ahead as usual, their keen eyes eagerly and carefully
scanning the broad expanse of the prairie before them.
So far, even the watchful glance of the old Indian-fighter had not
detected a single sign of Indians being near. No fresh trails were upon
the prairie.
Early that morning, before the march, he had carefully examined
the hoof-prints left by the horse of the Indian chief, commencing
at the little thicket; the trail led across the river and off in a
south-western direction, but this did not relieve the mind of the
guide; he knew the Indians too well; he conjectured that the party
under the lead of the ‘White Vulture’ were probably encamped somewhere
near the Big Horn river, and that their intention was to follow the
river north and thus strike the course of the train.
At six that afternoon the train halted for the night; they had made
forty miles since leaving the fort. Fires were kindled, the river-bank
supplying plenty of fuel. Then arrangements were made for passing the
night; the wagons were drawn up in a semicircle, the ends of which
rested on the river-bank; the beasts of burden were unharnessed and
brought within the circle--a wise precaution, for the first attempt on
the part of the Indians in an attack is always to stampede the cattle.
These once dispersed and scattered over the prairie, the emigrants of
course can not advance or retreat, and if the savages are unsuccessful
in their attack on the wagons and are beaten off, at least they have
the satisfaction of gathering in the stampeded stock.
The wagon-train “packed,” the next movement of the guides was to throw
out pickets and divide the men into “watches” for the night. Arms
were looked to and all preparations made to resist a night attack.
Instructions were given to the pickets, who were relieved every two
hours, to fire their rifles at the slightest alarm. The guides slept by
turns, and one was always on the alert, passing from picket to picket,
noiselessly as a panther, and ever and anon gliding like a ghost
through the darkness of the prairie beyond the picket-line, watching to
detect the presence of the foe.
The night passed slowly away without a single signal of danger.
As the first gray streaks of dawn began to appear, Abe, returning from
a prolonged scout on the prairie, met Dave who had just woke from an
hour’s nap.
“Well, any sign?”
“Nary sign. Thar hain’t been a red devil within a mile of us last
night, I’ll bet,” replied Abe.
“Can they have thought we are too strong for them and given us up?”
“No, I don’t think that,” responded Abe, thoughtfully. “I tell you,
this ‘White Vulture’ is jist as smart as they make ’em. He knows that
we of course suspect that an attack would be made, ’cos we saw him.
Now, of course, he knows that we’ll be on our guard ag’in’ the attack;
so he just waits; he lets two or three days go by; we don’t see any
Injun sign; we git careless--don’t keep up our watch--don’t look for
an attack--an’ _then_ he comes down onto us like a panther, claws an’
all. Two days more, at the rate we are going at, will bring us to where
the trail crosses the Yellowstone an’ strikes off to the north-west to
Codotte’s Pass. Wal, now, in ’bout three days, when we’re between the
Yellowstone an’ the Missouri, heading for the Missouri, he’ll go for
us.”
“There is sense in what you say,” said Dave.
“Sartain, I’m a nigger if thar ain’t; but though I think I’ve got the
Injun’s plan down to a p’int, I ain’t a-going to be caught napping
afore we leave the Yellowstone, ’cos he may go for us at any moment;
therefore I shall keep my eyes open.”
Breakfast was prepared and the emigrants, after partaking of it, again
took up their line of march.
We will now return to the “White Vulture” we left flying for his life
across the prairie. Mounted on the milk-white steed, that was indeed
a horse of matchless action, he crossed the Yellowstone and rode in a
south-western direction. His way lay across a rolling prairie dotted
here and there with little clumps of timber. Ever and anon he turned in
his saddle and listened for the sounds of pursuit. Satisfied at last
that no one was on his trail, he drew rein beside one of the little
clumps of timber; dismounted, tethered his horse to a stunted oak,
then taking from his pouch some dried buffalo-meat, cured in the sun,
he made a scanty meal, then after a careful scout around his immediate
neighborhood, he laid himself down upon the prairie and slept. The
white steed, that had evidently been reared among the Indians and
understood their customs, slept calmly by the side of its master.
As the first cold gray streaks of light appeared in the east, the
Indian chief awoke, mounted his horse and rode off, this time shaping
his course almost directly west. On he rode, from the early dawn until
the sun’s warm rays showed the noon at hand; then he halted by the
side of a little hollow in the prairie from which a spring gushed
forth, gave his horse water, partook again of the buffalo-meat, let his
horse graze for an hour or so on the fresh young grass and then again
pursued his way.
Two hours more of hard riding brought the “White Vulture” to the bank
of the Big Horn river, to an Indian encampment.
Some hundred warriors of the Crow nation had there tethered their
horses, while the braves themselves lay upon the grass, or walked
listlessly up and down by the turbid stream, now swollen high by the
spring rains.
From the fact that no squaws were with the party, nor lodges, nor
dogs--those usual accompaniments to stationary Indian encampments--one
acquainted with their customs would instantly have pronounced them
to be on the war-path. And if further evidence was wanted, the
gayly-painted faces of the warriors, bedecked with crimson, yellow,
black and white tints in all the hideous fashions of the savages when
on the war-trail, would have confirmed it.
The “White Vulture” dismounted from his horse, tied him to a shrub, and
with stately steps walked to the river’s bank, where, under the shade
of an oak tree, sat ten warriors, evidently the principal chiefs of the
party. The “White Vulture” sat down in the circle.
“My brother is late,” said an old chief, who was known among the Crows
as the “Thunder-Cloud,” probably from his dark color; he was one of the
oldest and best warriors in all the Crow nation.
“Yet the ‘White Vulture’s’ horse is like the wind; he could not come
before.”
“Has the great chief been on the war-trail?” asked another brave.
“The ‘White Vulture’ has been to the lodges of the blue-coated whites,
on the Powder river; he has seen the white wagons start for the great
mountains. If his brothers will open their ears the ‘White Vulture’
will speak.”
Then the chief gave a detailed account of his visit to Fort Bent and
what had occurred there. When he spoke of the riches of the emigrant
wagons, the eyes of the Indians sparkled with greed, but when he spoke
of the number of fighting men attached to the train, their brows grew
dark, and when he told them that the famous Indian-fighter, the terror
of all their nation, the dreaded “Crow-Killer” was with the train,
their faces showed their disappointment and their unwillingness to
encounter the old guide.
After the “White Vulture” had finished his story, there was silence
in the Indian council. To tell the truth they feared to attack the
train. They had sent some thirty of their warriors with the two wagons
of furs captured from the trappers to their chief village, which was
situated on the head-waters of the Missouri, near the base of the Rocky
Mountains.
“My brothers are silent,” said the “White Vulture,” a perceptible sneer
curling his lip; “will they attack the white wagons, or will they fly
from the ‘Crow-Killer’ like the hawk from the eagle? Will they yield
their hunting-grounds to the tread of the white man’s foot, or will
they fight and die like warriors for what is their own?”
The braves looked at the bold speaker. No one in the circle could
gainsay the caution or the prowess of the “White Vulture.” At length
one of the braves spoke:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a devil; the Great Spirit watches over his life.”
Then the “White Vulture” told of his encounter with the “Crow-Killer”;
he had not related it before. The chiefs listened attentively. At last,
after a long deliberation they determined to attack the train and
invested the “White Vulture” with supreme command of the expedition;
hitherto he had shared it with two others.
The “White Vulture” gave the order for the band to move, and in a few
minutes the warriors were in the saddle. The whole party crossed the
Big Horn river and rode slowly off in a north-western direction, that
in time would bring them to the Yellowstone river.
The old chief “Thunder-Cloud” rode by the side of the “White Vulture.”
“The ‘White Vulture’ felt the grasp of the ‘Crow-Killer’?” asked the
old chief.
“Yes; his arms are like the oak: they twined around the ‘White Vulture’
like the snake around the bird.”
“Yet the ‘White Vulture’ did not lose his scalp to the ‘Crow-Killer’?”
“The chief remembered the words of his father, the ‘Rolling Cloud.’ He
told his son that if he ever met the ‘Crow-Killer’ and was in danger
from him, to say that he was the son of ‘Little-Star.’”
“Did my brother say so?”
“Yes!”
“And the ‘Crow-Killer’?” questioned the old chief.
“He started as if he had been struck by the forked light of the Great
Spirit; his arms lost their strength; the ‘White Vulture’ escaped from
them and came back to his brothers; the charm was good.”
Then as they rode on, the “White Vulture” told the old chief of the
beautiful pale-face girl whose hair was the color of the red metal that
the Blackfeet sometimes found in the sands of the mountain streams and
molded into bullets--bullets with which they had slain many a brave
chief of the Crow nation--how her eyes in color were like the lodge of
the Great Spirit above and as soft as the eyes of the deer.
“My brother would take the white singing-bird to his wigwam,” said the
old chief; “it is good; she shall rear young braves, that in moons will
be great warriors of our tribe, for the ‘White Vulture’ is the great
fighting-man of the Crow nation.”
And so onward rode the Crow warriors on the war-trail.