AT THE STAKE.
It was on the evening of the fifth day after her capture by the
Indians that Ethel Hardy rode into a wide valley in the heart of
the mountains. It was entered by a narrow gorge, through which ran
a stream. Beyond this the hill receded, forming a nearly circular
basin a mile in diameter, from the sides of which the rocks
ascended almost perpendicularly, so that the only means of entering
it was through the gorge. Clumps of trees were scattered everywhere
about, and nearly in the center stood a large Indian village,
numbering about three hundred lodges, the population of which,
consisting almost entirely of women and children, came out with
shrill cries of welcome to meet the returning band. This was two
hundred strong. Before them they drove about four hundred cattle
and fifteen hundred sheep. In the midst of the band Ethel Hardy
rode, apparently unwatched, and forming part of it.
The girl was very pale, and turned even more so at the wild yells
of triumph which rose around her, when those who had been left
behind learned how signal had been the success of their warriors,
and heard that the captive in their midst was one of the family
which had inflicted such terrible loss upon the tribe two years
previously. Fortunately she could not understand the volleys of
threats and curses which the women of the tribe heaped upon her,
although she could not mistake their furious ejaculations.
Ethel had cried at first until she could cry no more, and had now
nerved herself for the worst. She had heard that the Indians have
neither mercy nor pity for any one who may exhibit fear of death;
she knew that no entreaties or tears would move them in the
slightest, but that courage and firmness would at any rate command
their respect and admiration. She had therefore schooled herself to
show no emotion when the time came; and now, except that she had
given an involuntary shudder at the sight of the gesticulating
throng, she betrayed no sign whatever of her emotion, but looked
round so calmly and unflinchingly that the violent abuse and
gesticulations died away in a murmur of admiration of the
pale-faced child who looked so calmly on death.
Nevertheless, as the troop drew up in front of the council hut, and
alighted, the women pressed round as usual to heap abuse upon the
prisoner; but one of the Indians stepped up to her, and waved them
back, and saying, "She is the child of a great chief," took her by
the arm, and handed her over to the care of the wife of one of the
principal chiefs. The selection was a good one; for the woman, who
was young, was known in the tribe as the Fawn for her gentle
disposition. She at once led the captive away to her lodge, where
she bade her sit down, offered her food, and spoke kindly to her in
her low, soft, Indian tongue. Ethel could not understand her, but
the kindly tones moved her more than the threats of the crowd
outside had done, and she broke down in a torrent of tears.
The Indian woman drew the girl to her as a mother might have done,
stroked her long fair hair, and soothed her with her low talk. Then
she motioned to a pile of skins in the corner of the hut; and when
Ethel gladly threw herself down upon them the Indian woman covered
her up as she would have done a child, and with a nod of farewell
tripped off to welcome her husband and hear the news, knowing that
there was no possibility of the captive making her escape.
Exhausted with fatigue and emotion, Ethel's sobs soon ceased, and
she fell into a sound sleep.
Of that terrible catastrophe at the Mercers' she had but a confused
idea. They were sitting round the table talking, when, without the
slightest notice or warning, the windows and doors were burst in,
and dozens of dark forms leaped into the room. She saw Mr. Mercer
rush to the wall and seize his pistols, and then she saw no more.
She was seized and thrown over the shoulder of an Indian before she
had time to do more than leap to her feet. There was a confused
whirl of sounds around her--shrieks, threats, pistol shots, and
savage yells--then the sounds swam in her ears, and she fainted.
When she recovered consciousness she found that she was being
carried on a horse before her captor, and that the air was full of
a red glare, which she supposed to arise from a burning house. On
the chief, who carried her, perceiving that she had recovered her
senses, he called to one of his followers, who immediately rode up,
bringing a horse upon which a side-saddle had been placed. To this
Ethel was transposed, and in another minute was galloping along by
the side of her captor.
Even now she could hardly persuade herself that she was not
dreaming. That instantaneous scene at the Mercers'--those confused
sounds--this wild cavalcade of dark figures who rode round
her--could not surely be real. Alas! she could not doubt it; and as
the thought came across her, What would they say at home when they
heard it? she burst into an agony of silent tears. Toward daybreak
she was often startled to hear the words, "Hope, Ethel, hope!" in
Spanish distinctly spoken close to her. She turned hastily, but
there rode the dark forms as usual. Still she felt sure that she
was not mistaken. Her own name she had distinctly heard; and
although she could not form a conjecture who this unknown friend
could be, still it was a great consolation to her to feel that she
had at any rate one well-wisher among her enemies. He had told her
to hope, too; and Ethel's spirits, with the elasticity of youth,
rose at the word.
Why should she not hope? she thought. They were sure to hear it at
home next morning, even if no one escaped and took them the news
earlier; and she was certain that within a few hours of hearing it
her father and friends Would be on their trail. Before the night
fell, at latest, they would be assembled. Twenty-four hours' start
would be the utmost that the Indians could possibly obtain, and her
friends would travel as fast or faster than they could, for they
would be free from all encumbrances. How far she was to be taken
she could not say, but she felt sure that in a week's traveling her
friends would make up for the day lost at starting. She knew that
they might not be able to attack the Indians directly they came up,
for they could not be a very strong party, whereas the Indians were
several hundred strong; but she believed that sooner or later, in
some way or other, her father and brothers would come to her
rescue. Ethel from that time forward did not doubt for a moment.
Trusting thus firmly in her friends, she gained confidence and
courage; and when the troops halted at nine in the morning, after
nine hours' riding, Ethel was able to look round with some sort of
curiosity and interest.
It was here that an incident occurred, which, although she knew it
not at the time, entirely altered her destination and prospects.
She was sitting upon the ground, when a man, who by his bearing
appeared to be the principal chief present, passed in earnest talk
with another chief. In the latter she recognized at once one of the
wounded Indian prisoners.
"Tawaina," she said, leaping to her feet.
He paid no attention to her call, and she repeated it in a louder
tone.
The principal chief stopped; Tawaina did the same. Then he walked
slowly toward the captive.
"Save me, Tawaina," she said, "and send me back again home."
Tawaina shook his head.
"Not can," he said. "Tawaina friend. Help some time--not now." And
he turned away again.
"Does the Raven know the White Bird," the chief asked him, "that
she sings his name?"
Tawaina paused and said:
"Tawaina knows her. Her father is the great white brave."
The Indian chief gave a bound of astonishment and pleasure.
"The white brave with the shooting flames?"
Tawaina nodded.
The Raven's meeting with Ethel had been apparently accidental, but
was in reality intentional. Her actual captor was one of the
chiefs, although not the principal one, of the Pampas Indians; and
in the division of the spoil, preparations for which were going on,
there was no doubt that she would be assigned to that tribe,
without any question upon the part of the Raven's people.
Now, however, that the Stag knew who the prisoner I was, he
determined to obtain her for his tribe. He therefore went direct to
the chief of the Pampas Indians, and asked that the white girl
might fall to his tribe.
The chief hesitated.
"She is our only captive," he said. "The people will like to see
her, and she will live in the lodge of the Fox, who carried her
off."
"The Stag would like her for a slave to his wife. He will give
fifty bullocks and two hundred sheep to the tribe, and will make
the Fox's heart glad with a present."
The offer appeared so large for a mere puny girl that the chief
assented at once; and the Fox was content to take a gun, which
proved part of the spoil, for his interest in his captive.
The Indians of Stag's tribe murmured to themselves at this costly
bargain upon the part of their chief. However, they expressed
nothing of this before him, and continued the work of counting and
separating the animals in proportion to the number of each tribe
present--the tribes from the plains being considerably the more
numerous.
Not until four o'clock were they again in motion, when each tribe
started for home.
In three hours' riding they reached the spring, and then the Stag
ordered a small tent of skins to be erected for Ethel's
accommodation.
From this she came out an hour later to gaze upon the great wave of
fire which, kindled at a point far away by their scouts, now swept
along northward, passing at a distance of three or four miles from
the spring.
It was when sitting gravely round the fire later on that the Stag
deigned to enlighten his followers as to his reasons for giving
what seemed to them so great a price for a pale-faced child.
The delight of the Indians, when they found that they had the
daughter of their twice victorious enemy in their hands was
unbounded. Vengeance is to the Indian even more precious than
plunder; and the tribe would not have grudged a far higher price
even than had been paid for the gratification of thus avenging
themselves upon their enemy. The news flew from mouth to mouth, and
triumphant whoops resounded throughout the camp; and Ethel inside
her tent felt her blood run cold at the savage exultation which
they conveyed.
She was greatly troubled by the fire, for she saw that it must
efface all signs of the trail, and render the task of her friends
long and difficult, and she felt greatly depressed at what she
looked upon as a certain postponement of her rescue. She lay
thinking over all this for a long time, until the camp had subsided
into perfect quiet. Then the skins were slightly lifted near her
head, and she heard a voice whisper:
"Me, Tawaina--friend. Great chief come to look for girl. Two
trails--eyes blinded. Tawaina make sign--point way. Give piece
dress that great chief may believe."
Ethel at once understood. She cautiously tore off a narrow strip
from the bottom of her dress, and put it under the skin to the
speaker.
"Good," he said. "Tawaina friend. Ethel, hope."
Greatly relieved by knowing that a clew would be now given to her
friends, and overpowered by fatigue, Ethel was very shortly fast
asleep.
At daybreak they set off again, having thus thirty hours' start of
their pursuers. They traveled six hours, rested from eleven till
three, and then traveled again until dark. Occasionally a sheep
lagged behind, footsore and weary. He was instantly killed and
cut up.
For four days was their rate of traveling, which amounted to upward
of fifty miles a day, continued, and they arrived, as has been
said, the last evening at their village.
During all this time Ethel was treated with courtesy and respect.
The best portion of the food was put aside for her, the little tent
of skins was always erected at night, and no apparent watch was
kept over her movements.
The next morning she was awake early, and had it not been for the
terrible situation in which she was placed she would have been
amused by the busy stir in the village, and by the little
copper-colored urchins at play, or going out with the women to
collect wood or fetch water. There was nothing to prevent Ethel
from going out among them, but the looks of scowling hatred which
they cast at her made her draw back again into the hut, after a
long, anxious look around.
It was relief at least to have halted, great as her danger
undoubtedly was. She felt certain now that hour by hour her father
must be approaching. He might even now be within a few miles. Had
it not been for the fire, she was certain that he would already
have been up, but she could not tell how long he might have been
before he recovered the trail.
Toward the middle of the day two or three Indians might have been
seen going through the village, summoning those whose position and
rank entitled them to a place at the council.
Soon they were seen approaching, and taking their seats gravely on
the ground in front of the hut of the principal chief. The women,
the youths, and such men as had not as yet by their feats in battle
distinguished themselves sufficiently to be summoned to the
council, assembled at a short distance off. The council sat in the
form of a circle, the inner ring being formed of the elder and
leading men of the tribe, while the warriors sat round them.
Struck by the hush which had suddenly succeeded to the noise of the
village, Ethel again went to the door. She was greatly struck by
the scene, and was looking wonderingly at it, when she felt a touch
on her shoulder, and on looking round saw the Fawn gazing pityingly
at her, and at the same time signing to her to come in.
The truth at once flashed across Ethel's mind. The council had met
to decide her fate, and she did not doubt for a moment what that
decision would be. She felt that all hope was over, and retiring
into the hut passed the time in prayer and in preparation for the
fearful ordeal which was at hand.
After the council had met there was a pause of expectation, and the
Stag then rose.
"My brothers, my heart is very glad. The Great Spirit has ceased to
frown upon his children. Twice we went out, and twice returned
empty-handed, while many of our lodges were empty. The guns which
shoot without loading were too strong for us, and we returned
sorrowful. Last year we did not go out; the hearts of our braves
were heavy. This year we said perhaps the Great Spirit will no
longer be angry with his children, and we went out. This time we
have not returned empty-handed. The lowing of cattle is in my ear,
and I see many sheep. The white men have felt the strength of our
arms; and of the young men who went out with me there is not one
missing. Best of all, we have brought back a captive, the daughter
of the white chief of the flying fires and the guns which load
themselves. Let me hand her over to our women; they will know how
to make her cry; and we will send her head to the white chief, to
show that his guns cannot reach to the Indian country. Have I
spoken well?"
A murmur of assent followed the chief's speech; and supposing that
no more would be said upon the matter, the Stag was about to
declare the council closed, when an Indian sitting in the inner
circle rose.
"My brothers, I will tell you a story. The birds went out to attack
the nest of an eagle, but the eagle was too strong for them; and
when all had gone he went out from his nest with his children, the
young eagles, and he found the raven and two other birds hurt and
unable to fly, and instead of killing them, as they might have
done, the eagles took them up to their nest, and nursed them and
tended them until they were able to fly, and then sent them home to
their other birds. So was it with Tawaina and his two friends." And
the speaker indicated with his arm two Indians sitting at the outer
edge of the circle. "Tawaina fell at the fence where so many of us
fell, and in the morning the white men took him and gave him water,
and placed him in shelter, and bandaged his wound; and the little
White Bird and her sister brought him food and cool drinks every
day and looked pitifully at him. But Tawaina said to himself, The
white men are only curing Tawaina that when the time comes they may
see how an Indian can die. But when he was well they brought
horses, and put a bow and arrows into our hands and bade us go
free. It is only in the battle that the great white chief is
terrible. He has a great heart. The enemies he killed he did not
triumph over. He laid them in a great grave. He honored them, and
planted trees with drooping leaves at their head and at their feet,
and put a fence round that the foxes might not touch their bones.
Shall the Indian be less generous than the white man? Even those
taken in battle they spared and sent home. Shall we kill the White
Bird captured in her nest? My brothers will not do so. They will
send back the White Bird to the great white chief. Have I spoken
well?"
This time a confused murmur ran round the circle. Some of the
younger men were struck with this appeal to their generosity, and
were in favor of the Raven's proposition; the elder and more
ferocious Indians were altogether opposed to it.
Speaker succeeded speaker, some urging one side of the question,
some the other.
At last the Stag again rose. "My brothers," he said, "my ears have
heard strange words, and my spirit is troubled. The Raven has told
us of the ways of the whites after a battle; but the Indians' ways
are not as the whites' ways, and the Stag is too old to learn new
fashions. He looks round, he sees many lodges empty, he sees many
women who have no husbands to hunt game, he hears the voices of
children who cry for meat. He remembers his brothers who fell
before the flying fire and the guns which loaded themselves, and
his eyes are full of blood. The great white chief has made many
wigwams desolate: let there be mourning in the house of the white
chief. Have I spoken well?"
The acclamations which followed this speech were so loud and
general that the party of the Raven was silenced, and the council
at once broke up.
A cry of exultation broke from the women when they heard the
decision, and all prepared for the work of vengeance before them.
At a signal from the Stag two of the young Indians went to the hut
and summoned Ethel to accompany them. She guessed at once that her
death was decided upon and, pale as marble, but uttering no cry or
entreaty, which she knew would be useless, she walked between them.
For a moment she glanced at the women around her, to see if there
was one look of pity or interest; but faces distorted with hate and
exultation met her eyes, and threats and imprecations assailed her
ears. The sight, though it appalled, yet nerved her with courage. A
pitying look would have melted her--this rage against one so
helpless as herself nerved her; and, with her eyes turned upward
and her lips moving in prayer, she kept along.
The Indians led her to a tree opposite the center of the village,
bound her securely to it, and then retired.
There was a pause before the tragedy was to begin. Some of the
women brought fagots for the pile, others cut splinters to thrust
under the nails and into the flesh. The old women chattered and
exulted over the tortures they would inflict; a few of the younger
ones stood aloof, looking on pityingly.
The men of the tribe gathered in a circle, but took no part in the
preparations--the torture of women was beneath them.
At last all was ready. A fire was lit near; the hags lit their
firebrands and advanced. The chief gave the signal, and with a yell
of exultation they rushed upon their victim, but fell back with a
cry of surprise, rudely thrust off by three Indians who placed
themselves before the captive.
The women retreated hastily, and the men advanced to know the
reason of this strange interruption. The Raven and his companions
were unarmed. The Indians frowned upon them, uncertain what course
to pursue.
"My brothers," the Raven said, "I am come to die. The Raven's time
is come. He has flown his last flight. He and his brothers will die
with the little White Bird. The Raven and his friends are not dogs.
They have shed their blood against their enemies, and they do not
know how to cry out. But their time has come, they are ready to
die. But they must die before the little White Bird. If not, her
spirit will fly to the Great Spirit, and will tell him that the
Raven and his friends, whom she had sheltered and rescued, had
helped to kill her; and the Great Spirit would shut the gates of
the happy hunting grounds against them. The Raven has spoken."
There was a pause of extreme astonishment, followed by a clamor of
voices. Those who had before espoused the cause of the Raven again
spoke out loudly, while many of the others hesitated as to the
course to be pursued.
The Stag hastily consulted with two or three of his principal
advisers, and then moved forward, waving his hand to command
silence. His countenance was calm and unmoved, although inwardly he
was boiling with rage at this defiance of his authority. He was too
politic a chief, however to show this. He knew that the great
majority of the tribe was with him; yet the employment of force to
drag the Raven and his companions from their post would probably
create a division in the tribe, the final results of which none
could see, and for the consequences of which he would, in case of
any reverse, be held responsible and looked upon with disapproval
by both parties.
"The Ravens and his friends have great hearts," he said
courteously. "They are large enough to shelter the little White
Bird. Let them take her. Her life is spared. She shall remain with
our tribe."
The Raven inclined his head, and taking a knife from a warrior
near, he cut the cords which bound Ethel, and beckoning to the
Fawn, handed the astonished girl again into her charge saying as he
did so, "Stop in hut. Not go out; go out, bad." And then,
accompanied by his friends, he retired without a word to one of
their huts.
A perfect stillness had hung over the crowd during this scene; but
when it became known that Ethel was to go off unscathed a murmur
broke out from the elder females, disappointed in their work of
vengeance. But the Stag waved his hand peremptorily, and the crowd
scattered silently to their huts, to talk over the unusual scene
that had taken place.
The Raven and his friends talked long and earnestly together. They
were in no way deceived by the appearance of friendliness which the
Stag had assumed. They knew that henceforth there was bitter hatred
between them, and that their very lives were insecure. As to Ethel,
it was, they knew, only a short reprieve which had been granted
her. The Stag would not risk a division in the tribe for her sake,
nor would attempt to bring her to a formal execution; but the first
time she wandered from the hut she would be found dead with a knife
in her heart.
The Raven, however, felt certain that help was at hand. He and his
friends, who knew Mr. Hardy, were alone of the tribe convinced that
a pursuit would be attempted. The fact that no such attempt to
penetrate into the heart of the Indian country had ever been made
had lulled the rest into a feeling of absolute security. The Raven,
indeed, calculated that the pursuers must now be close at hand, and
that either on that night or the next they would probably enter the
gorge and make the attack.
The result of the council was that he left his friends and walked
in a leisurely way back to his own hut, taking no notice of the
hostile glances which some of the more violent of the Stag's
supporters cast toward him.
On his entrance he was welcomed by his wife, a young girl whom he
had only married since his return from the expedition, and to whom,
from what he had learned of the position of women among the whites,
he allowed more freedom of speech and action than are usually
permitted to Indian women. She had been one of the small group who
had pitied the white girl.
"The Raven is a great chief," she said proudly; "he has done well.
The Mouse trembled, but she was glad to see her lord stand forth.
The Stag will strike, though," she added anxiously. "He will look
for the blood of the Raven."
"The Stag is a great beast," the Indian said sententiously; "but
the Raven eat him at last."
Then, sitting down upon a pile of skins, the chief filled his pipe,
and made signs to his wife to bring fire. Then he smoked in silence
for some time until the sun went down, and a thick darkness closed
over the valley.
At length he got up, and said to his wife, "If they ask for the
Raven, say that he has just gone out; nothing more. He will not
return till daybreak; and remember," and he laid his hand upon her
arm to impress the caution, "whatever noise the Mouse hears in the
night, she is not to leave the hut till the Raven comes back to
her."
The girl bowed her head with an Indian woman's unquestioning
obedience; and then, drawing aside the skin which served as a door,
and listening attentively hear if any one were near, the Raven went
out silently into the darkness.