SMOHOLLER’S FIEND.
“What does this mean?” added Lieutenant Gardiner, having read this
singular scroll aloud.
“A game of bluff!” answered the irrepressible Percy Cute. “Let’s see
him, and go two better!”
“It’ll be more than a bluff game,” rejoined Gummery Glyndon, shaking his
head gravely. “This means business. It’s a notice to quit, and if we
don’t take it, these Injuns will do their best to put us out.”
“Rub us out entirely, I guess you mean,” cried Surveyor Robbins,
laughingly. “But we won’t take the back track on such a notice as that.
Who is this Smoholler?”
“Yes, that’s what I want to know,” chimed in Blaikie and Lieutenant
Gardiner.
“I have heard tell of him, though I never met him,” replied Glyndon.
“He’s a great gun among the Injuns hereabouts. He’s a kind of red
Brigham Young—calls himself a Prophet, and has started a new religion
among the red-skins.”
“What is this religion like?”
“That’s more than I can say; though, from what I’ve heard, there appears
to be a deal of trickery about it. He’s a great Medicine-man, and can
raise the Old Boy, generally. He has his familiar fiends, and makes ’em
appear to his followers whenever he likes. He works miracles, and all
that sort of thing. And when he predicts the death of any one, they just
go, sure pop, at the time mentioned.”
“A singular man, this,” remarked Lieutenant Gardiner, thoughtfully.
“He’s more smart than sing’lar; he just keeps these benighted heathen
right under his thumb. They don’t dare to say their souls are their own
when he’s around.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He is said to be a Snake Indian of the Walla Walla tribe. He started a
village on the river, above here, at a place they call Priest’s Rapids,
and his followers increased like magic. He is said, by the Nez Perces,
to have a couple of thousand of believers, renegades from all the other
tribes in this region, and he can put three hundred fighting men in the
field, and then the Cayuses, Yakimas and Umatillas all stand in dread of
him, and wouldn’t dare to do any thing else but join him in a war
against the whites if he called on ’em. I believe he’s got a reg’lar
stronghold at Priest’s Rapids.”
“Is it named so on his account?” asked Robbins.
Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“I s’pose so, but I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t know the place; was
never up there.”
“What kind of a place is it—did you ever hear?”
“Oh, yes. It is north of the Oregon line, and is a great place for
salmon-fishing. The Injuns have a great time catching ’em in the
season.”
“This Smoholler, then, is a kind of independent chief among the other
tribes?”
“Yes; and his tribe is a conglomeration of all the other tribes, and the
pick of ’em, too. They are called Smohollers by the other Injuns, but
there’s Cayuses, Yakimas, Umatillas, Modocs, Snakes, and Piutes amongst
them.”
“A mongrel set!”
“But tough customers to deal with.”
Lieutenant Gardiner turned to Percy Vere.
“You and your chum send the sentinels in to me, and take their
places—young eyes are sharp.”
The two boys, who had been listening attentively to this conversation,
obeyed at once, and the two sentinels soon appeared before the
lieutenant. But they had not seen any one approach the camp, and were
surprised to hear that an arrow had been shot into it.
Gummery Glyndon surveyed the nearest cliff critically. Its base was
about a stone’s throw from where he sat. The rising moon threw a silvery
radiance upon its peak, disclosing an irregularity near its top, that
looked like a cavity in its face, though it might have been only a
shadow.
“It’s my opinion the arrow came from there,” he exclaimed, giving
utterance to this thought suddenly.
All eyes were turned in the direction indicated.
“But how could any one get up there? A cat couldn’t climb that. It’s as
steep and as smooth as a wall.”
“Just you wait,” returned the old guide, coolly. “If this Smoholler is
the kind of man he’s said to be, we ain’t done with him yet. Just keep
your weather eye peeled in the direction of that cliff, and have your
rifles handy. That arrow was only the commencement. I saw plenty of
Injun sign to-day, and there may be a hundred of Smoholler’s braves
beyond there. I opine that he is not going to let us travel much further
into this country, if he can help it.”
“But, man, what harm does our surveying do him?” asked Blaikie.
“He don’t want any railroad through this country—all Injuns are down on
railroads—sp’ils their hunting-grounds, and settles up the country. And
the white settlers settle the Injuns. We’ve had a genteel notice to
leave, and if we don’t take it, we’ll have ’em swarming round us like
enraged hornets.”
“You would not advise a retrograde movement?” asked Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Who said any thing about taking the back-track?” somewhat tartly
rejoined Glyndon. “Did I? I never saw Injuns enough to back me down
yet.”
The lieutenant laughed, as he added:
“The suggestion of a backward movement came from me,” he said, “and by
so doing I am not afraid to have my courage called into question.
Discretion is said to be the better part of valor. We appear to have
reached a critical position here. Our party is small—nineteen in all,
counting the two boys. If the Indians oppose us in force—and from what
Glyndon says it seems that this Indian Prophet Smoholler can put three
hundred warriors in the field—shall we be justified in advancing against
such odds?”
The surveyors looked at Glyndon, but he was silent, gazing reflectively
at the cliff, upon whose summit the moonbeams now played in a fantastic
manner.
“I confess I don’t like the idea of retreating,” said Blaikie. “I don’t
want to be turned back by such a scarecrow as that.”
“No more do I,” added Robbins.
“I don’t say go back, and I don’t say go on,” replied Glyndon, in his
deliberate manner; “but I say, just hold on for a while here, where we
are, until we can see how the cat jumps.”
“How long will it be before the feline animal indulges in her gymnastic
exercise, do you think?” asked Robbins.
“Before you can smoke another pipe,” answered Glyndon. “I have an idea
that something is going to happen right away—kind o’ feel it in my
bones. Get the men ready, leftenant—there’s no telling what is— Hello!
it’s coming! Fireworks—by king!”
The amazement of the old hunter was shared by the whole camp, and the
two boys came running in from their posts.
“See—see—look there!”
A strange fire issued from the face of the cliff, disclosing a little
shelf or platform, backed by a cavity. From this cavity the fire came
forth with crimson luster, and rose colored smoke rolled upward toward
the heaven, obscuring the moon-rays.
The entire force of the whites clustered in front of the grove,
clutching their rifles, and gazing with wondering eyes upon this
singular sight, and exclamations burst spontaneously from their lips.
“Ach Gott! what ish dat?” cried the Dutch private.
“It’s a volcayano!” explained the Irishman.
“It’s the debble’s fireplace!” mumbled Isaac, and his teeth chattered
together with superstitious awe.
“It’s some of Smoholler’s deviltry!” said Glyndon.
The fire grew in intensity, and then a dark body seemed to grow up in
the midst of it. A black, unearthly figure of a man, with eyes of fire,
a tongue of flame, and livid horns projecting from his head, of a
deep-red color.
“The devil!” was the cry that burst from the lips of the astonished
whites.
He held what appeared to be a thunderbolt in his hand, and suddenly
launched it like a javelin at the astonished gazers. It whizzed past
Isaac’s head, singeing his wool in its passage, and exploding at his
heels, and the tonsorial professor sprawled upon his back with one
heart-rending yell that evinced his firm belief that he had received his
quietus.
“Fiend or man, I’ll have a try at him!” cried Glyndon, and he took a
rapid sight along the barrel of his rifle, and fired at the apparition
on the cliff.
Two other rifles echoed his, for Blaikie and Robbins had impulsively
followed his example. The three rifles sent forth their contents, and
the smoke clouded their vision for a moment. But following the reports
came an unearthly, soul-curdling laugh, and then something pattered down
among them like heavy drops of rain.
Robbins stooped and picked up a round object that struck at his feet.
“Good heavens! here’s my bullet sent back to me!” he cried.
These words sent a thrill through every heart. Isaac, still lying curled
up in a heap where he had fallen, uttered a plaintive howl.
Percy Cute went to him.
“Are you dead, Ike? If you are, say so, and tell us where you would like
to be buried,” he said.
Isaac sat up on end, resenting this question.
“Glory!” he cried. “S’pose de debble had shot you, how would you like
it?”
“Well, if I warn’t hurt any more than you are, I shouldn’t mind it much.
Singed your wool a little, but your Hair Restorer will fix that all
right, you know.”
A roar of laughter followed this remark, and in the midst of it Isaac
scrambled sheepishly to his feet.