PRISONERS OF THE BLACKFEET
FLIGHT was out of the question, for the boys could hardly hope to excel
those fleet-footed Indian braves, however successful Mayhew might have
proved.
Indeed, there was little time given to any of them to think of escape.
When the wily French trader had conveyed his suspicions to some of the
Blackfoot braves there was a concerted dash toward the clump of bushes.
Some of the Indians started to circle around, evidently in the
expectation that, if the whites were concealed, they would attempt
flight, and the idea of these runners was to forestall any such dash.
"We must hold them back or all is lost!" exclaimed Mayhew, who, being
an experienced Indian fighter, doubtless knew the weak and strong
points of the red men, no matter to what tribe they belonged.
The report of his long-barreled rifle followed his words almost
instantly. There could be no question but that his bullet found its
billet, for Mayhew was a crack shot.
Roger strained his eyes to discover the form of Lascelles among those
rushing straight toward the bushes, but he looked in vain. The shrewd
Frenchman must have suspected that he would be a shining mark for the
concealed riflemen, and hence he had discreetly taken shelter behind
a convenient tree trunk, from whence he could observe all that went
on, and be ready to appear after the battle was over. Failing to see
Lascelles, Roger took hasty aim at the nearest Indian and fired, but
apparently missed.
Dick had not thought about trying for the trader; indeed, it might have
been the most foolish thing Roger could have done, since the Indians,
if successful, would probably dispatch the boys without hesitation,
unless there was a restraining hand put out to prevent it.
The tricky warriors came leaping and dodging to the attack, so that it
was not the easiest thing in the world to hit such an eccentric target.
When Dick fired he felt sure he had not missed, and yet his intended
victim failed to fall, though he did act as though wounded.
The guns being now empty the boys drew their pistols. These of course
were of the same construction, being furnished with flint locks. It
required considerable knack to be able to discharge such a weapon.
The powder had to be shaken afresh into the pan, or there would be no
explosion after the flint and steel had come violently in contact.
Then, unless the connection were assured through the minute hole, it
would result only in a flash in the pan, instead of the weapon doing
its full duty.
Roger, always more careless than Dick, snapped his pistol in vain, for
there was no report. Perhaps it was just as well, since, in the end,
one enemy more or less would have made very little difference.
By this time the Indians were upon them, and each one of the little
party found himself in the midst of a whirling force that frustrated
all their wild efforts to strike with knife or hatchet.
From a point close at hand a shrill voice was screaming orders in the
Indian tongue. François had come to life suddenly, after making sure
that the whites could no longer cover him with their fire-arms. He was
ordering his red minions not to finish the three palefaces, if they
expected to obtain the reward he had promised them.
All this the boys heard as in a dream. They were so furiously engaged
at the time, it was little attention they paid to anything that was
going on. To avoid the savage blows aimed at them by dusky hands that
gripped stone tomahawks, was about as much as they could manage. It was
only later on, when they had a chance to exchange views concerning the
fight, that they reached such a conclusion.
Such an unequal contest could not last long. Dick and Roger were pulled
to the ground by the many hands that gripped them. Struggling to the
bitter end, they expected that some one of their red antagonists would
finish them with a fell sweep of those flourished tomahawks; indeed,
Dick shut his eyes in anticipation of such a tragedy, and before his
inward vision there flashed one glimpse of the dear ones in the far
distant home on the bank of the Missouri.
But the blow did not fall. He could hear the excited voice of Lascelles
haranguing the braves, and, opening his eyes again, Dick found that the
French trader had interposed his arm between the threatening weapons
and the two boys.
Just what François was saying to his allies Dick could not tell, since
he knew little of Indian talk, and nothing at all of the Blackfoot
language. He could, of course, guess that Lascelles, for some reason
of his own, did not wish the boys slain. It could hardly have been pity
that influenced the trader, for he was a cruel man.
Dick became aware of several other things just then. One was that Roger
was keeping up his vain struggling, despite the fact that a couple of
brawny braves were sitting on him.
"Keep still, Roger," commanded Dick, realizing that the impulsive lad
was imperiling both of their lives by his senseless actions; "you can
never break away, and by keeping up that fighting you may force them to
knock us on the head. We are prisoners, and there is no help for it."
Roger stopped his writhing and beating with his fists, though the fact
that he had to yield to the inevitable forced a groan from his lips.
"Where is Mayhew?" asked Dick, noting that the scout did not seem to be
near.
Before Roger could frame any sort of a reply they heard a series of
yells from a little distance, followed by a shot.
"He must have managed to break away, Dick," exclaimed Roger, when he
could get rid of the dirt that impeded his speaking; "and some of the
Indians have followed after him. Oh, I hope he has not been killed!"
"That didn't sound like it," Dick told him. "There was a deal of
baffled fury in those Indian yells. Mayhew may get clear away, after
all. He has no equal as a runner among all the men of the expedition."
There was no time to say more, nor were the conditions by which the two
boys were surrounded of a nature to invite conversation.
Lascelles had apparently convinced those of the Indians who seemed
most bent on finishing the white boys that it would be more to their
advantage to hold them as prisoners or hostages, for reluctantly they
dropped their uplifted weapons. That more than one of them did this
under protest could be seen from the manner in which they eyed the
prisoners, and shook their feather bedecked heads.
"Get up, you American swine!" said Lascelles, accompanying his remark
with a kick from the toe of his moccasin.
As there was no longer a weight on his chest Roger sprang to his feet
as though he had been shot up by a gigantic spring. His face was white
with anger, and he would have leaped straight at the throat of the
insulting French trader, despite the fact of Lascelles holding a
leveled pistol in front of him, only that Dick seized hold and held him
back.
"You are crazy to think of that, Roger! Have some sense. Think of those
at home, and do nothing to force his hand!"
It was a terrible task for the hot-blooded boy to subside. He gave
Lascelles a look that spoke volumes, but which only caused the
Frenchman to grin in pleasure, for he had no idea that these boys would
ever be given the chance to turn the tables on him.
Neither of the boys had been badly hurt in the fierce scrimmage, though
scratches and minor cuts were in evidence, and they looked the worse
for wear. Deprived of every weapon, they were helpless in the midst of
that circle of hostile Blackfeet, and could only grit their teeth and
give back look for look in a resolute fashion.
Lascelles stood before them, with folded arms, and a sneer on his dark
face. From a point still more remote there came again those yells of
baffled rage to tell that the skillful Mayhew must still be eluding his
pursuers.
"So, zis is ze young Armstrongs zat I haf ze pleasure to entertain?"
the trader started to say, as though he had a communication to make
which he fancied would add still more to their wretchedness, and it was
necessary to first of all "break the ice."
"Yes, we are the Armstrong boys, and you are François Lascelles,"
replied Dick. "What business have you trying to make us prisoners? We
are not interfering with these Indians in their hunting grounds. The
last time we saw you it was at the cabin of our grandfather, David
Armstrong. Why do you not order these warriors to set us free? We will
go back to the camp from which we came, and they will not see us again."
"Eet is not to be as you wish, but as I say," the Frenchman observed,
with a pompous inflation of his chest, as became a victor. "I haf you
in my power, and zat ees vat I am here for. Eef you evair return to ze
home again eet vill not be until ze winter is gone. Zen eet vill be too
late to take ze leetle paper to zose zat sit by ze fireside, and wait
day by day for you to come back!"
At hearing this Dick felt considerable relief. Perhaps, after all,
the Frenchman was not quite so bad a man as he had believed. He spoke
as though there might be a possibility of their being kept prisoners
through the winter, and set free in the spring, when it was no longer
possible for them to reach home before the time limit had expired, and
their parents ousted from their property.
That would mean that long months must elapse. They might even be taken
to the Blackfoot village, leagues and leagues away, but there would
always remain a chance for escape. Dick was a firm believer in the old
motto that "while there's life there's hope."
"You know why we are here in this strange land, then?" he remarked,
chiefly to draw the other out, so that something might be learned
concerning the whereabouts of Jasper Williams.
"Yes, eet is all plain to me vy you come here," Lascelles assured him,
nodding as he spoke. "I haf made sure zat ze paper you could nevaire
secure. I haf already ze Williams a prisoner in anuzzer camp, vere my
son Alexis and ze brave French comrades zay watch heem like ze weasel."
"You mean that Jasper Williams is a prisoner, do you?" asked Dick,
while Roger listened eagerly, trying to read the grinning countenance
of Lascelles, and determine whether he was speaking the truth, or
concocting a lie for some evil purpose.
"Zat ees vat I am saying," continued Lascelles; "I haf arranged zat he
may be taken to ze village of Black Otter, and adopted into ze tribe.
Ze big chief haf long wished to haf ze white man show zem many things
zat zey do not know. Williams nevaire come back from ze Blackfoot
country. Eet is many days' journey into ze cold Northwest, and no white
man has ever seen the wigwams of Black Otter."
"But what will you do with us; I hope you will not send us with the
Blackfeet also?" asked Dick, still seeking information.
"I haf not yet made up my mind, but pouf! vat does it matter to me? So
zat you may not send ze word down to ze town on zat Missouri I care not
vat becomes of ze Armstrong vermin. I haf Williams, and now both ends
zey are tied up. Zat ees well!"
"You will have to prove it before I believe Williams is your prisoner!"
said Dick.
"Ah! zat ees easy," retorted the Frenchman; "you haf seen zis knife in
hees possession, it may be. Do you not recognize eet? Williams think so
much of zat knife he would not let it leave hees person. But I haf eet
here. So you see zere ees ze proof zat he ees a prisoner in zat uzzer
camp."