THE PROPHET-CHIEF.
The savages were loth to be cheated of their prey.
“Six of our braves have fallen,” replied the warrior who had before
spoken, “and the gray hunter has escaped. The blood of our brothers
calls for vengeance! Death to the cubs of the pale-face!”
He raised his tomahawk to smite Percy Cute.
“_Monedo! Monedo!_” exclaimed the chief, in that shrill tone which
contrasted strongly with the deep guttural of the Indian. “Palsy the arm
that strikes against the will of Smoholler!”
The warrior’s threatening arm dropped, and he retreated apprehensively
from the form of the prostrate boy.
“Smoholler, do not call up your evil-spirit!” he cried, deprecatingly.
The Prophet raised his right arm loftily. Cute recovered in a measure
from the effects of the blow which had felled him, and which,
fortunately for him, had been given with the blunt end of the tomahawk,
and crawled to Percy Vere, who rested upon one knee beneath the
Prophet’s protecting left arm.
“Are these captives mine?” demanded Smoholler.
A general murmur of affirmation was the response.
“That’s right, Smoholler; you’re a brick—just you stick to us, that’s a
good fellow,” cried Cute, whose spirits were equal to any emergency. “I
say, Percy, our top-knots are safe yet.”
This was whispered to his comrade. Percy said nothing; he was gazing in
a bewildered manner upon the strange individual who had so unexpectedly
spared his life. He was at a loss to account for this sudden clemency.
The Prophet’s face, by the aid of war-paint, was made to assume an
expression frightful to look upon. He was tall in figure, and appeared
to possess extraordinary activity and strength, as indeed he did. Percy
thought him the best specimen he had yet seen of an Indian chief. His
dress displayed his tall and sinewy form to great advantage. It seemed
to have been chosen with the view of producing the greatest effect upon
the eye of the beholder.
His moccasins and leggings were of buck-skin, stained black, and trimmed
with red fringe. His hunting-shirt was of the same material and color,
and trimmed in like manner, and upon its breast was painted in red a
grinning fiend, similar to the one who had appeared upon the cliff. His
head-dress was the skull of a buffalo, with the horns projecting on
either side of his head, and he wore it in the fashion of a helmet.
These projecting, curved horns added to the ferocity of his face, the
features of which were nearly indistinguishable beneath the paint with
which it was daubed. You could see that he had deep, sunken eyes, with a
wild glare to them, like the light of insanity, and a long, prominent
nose, and that was all.
Upon his back he wore a mantle of deer-skin, which was curiously stained
and colored, and covered with innumerable figures and characters. The
prominent figures were a fiend and an angel, who appeared to be engaged
in an interminable conflict.
These were representatives of his _Monedos_, or spirits, which his
followers firmly believed he could conjure up at will to do his bidding.
No wonder the boys gazed with curious eyes upon this strange leader.
They could see that he was disposed to befriend them, but they could not
understand why.
“The captives are mine; woe to him who seeks to harm them!” cried
Smoholler, thus asserting his claim in a manner that proved he
considered it settled beyond further dispute. “They shall go to the
Rapids with me.”
“You’re a trump, Smoholler!” exclaimed Percy Cute, gratefully.
“There to be sacrificed to the spirits I control,” continued Smoholler.
Cute groaned.
“Oh, law! are we only going out of the frying-pan into the fire?” he
muttered.
“Don’t be frightened; he does not intend to harm us,” whispered Percy
Vere.
Cute shook his head in a doleful manner.
“I wish I was sure of that,” he answered.
“Well, we can only trust to his mercy.”
“Ah, yes! but if he happens to be out of it just now, and can’t get a
fresh supply?” suggested Cute, lugubriously. He appeared determined to
take a discouraging view of the situation. “I know the tricks of these
red codgers; I’ve read about ’em in books. He has got some horrible old
idol in a cave up at the Rapids, where he lives, and he makes human
sacrifices to it. We shall be grilled, like a couple of innocent lambs,
as we are.”
“Pshaw! don’t lose all your courage at the first reverse. You’re not
goin to funk, are you?”
“Nary a funk! I’m only taking a rational view of the situation. It’s
kind of tight papers now, ain’t it—you’ll allow that?”
“Perhaps; but then we can’t help it, can we?”
“No; that’s what’s the matter!”
“Besides, we can’t die but once.”
“I know it; that’s what makes it so awkward. If a chap could die two or
three times he might get used to it, don’t you see?”
This reasoning provoked a smile from Percy Vere.
“Well, we must take our chances,” he answered. “Repining won’t help us.
You wanted a brush with the red-skins, and you’ve had it.”
“You bet! My head sings yet where the big chap hit me. It’s lucky for me
that my skull is tolerably thick. Didn’t I see stars when I went down?
And I never expected to get up again. Well, we peppered some of ’em, as
Gummery would say, and that’s some satisfaction. I wonder if he got safe
off?”
This question was answered by the return of four of the warriors, who
had pursued Glyndon to the river’s edge, and who reported that the old
hunter had swam down the stream, apparently uninjured by the bullets
they had sent after him.
The Prophet turned to Percy Vere.
“What is the number of your party?” he demanded, in good English, and
spoken with a purity that surprised the boy.
Percy Vere hesitated to answer this question.
“Speak!” cried the Prophet, in a peremptory manner.
Still Percy Vere hesitated.