THE CHIEF’S BRIDE.
Multuomah inclined his head in a gratified manner at this praise.
Lieutenant Gardiner and the surveyors gazed upon him curiously. He was a
fine specimen of the warlike nation to which he belonged—the powerful
Sahaptin tribe. The name of _Nez Perces_ was given to this tribe by the
early French voyageurs, as a custom once existed among them of wearing a
bone ring in the cartilage of the nose, which was pierced for that
purpose, hence _Nez Perces_, or in English Pierced Noses; and though the
custom is discontinued, the name still remains.
Nor are they the only tribe of the Indians of that section who have lost
their original name in the fanciful ones bestowed upon them by the
voyageurs, who were the first explorers of the great North-west. The
_Pen D’Oreilles_ (Ear-rings), _Cœur D’Alenes_ (Needle-hearts), still
exist.
Multuomah was of medium hight, slender in figure, but as straight as an
arrow, and gracefully proportioned. His face, undisfigured by war-paint,
was eminently handsome, and his features wore a pleasant expression. His
eyes were dark and keen as an eagle’s, and his hair was long and
flowing, and as black as jet. His complexion was not unlike bronze in
its hue, clear and vivid, and not that dull chocolate hue, so common
among the Oregon tribes.
He wore a hunting-shirt, leggins, and moccasins of deer-skin, all richly
ornamented with fringe and beads; and an eagle’s feather was fastened in
the band that kept his long black hair from his eyes. He was armed with
rifle, tomahawk, and scalping-knife.
His age could not have been over twenty-five. Take his appearance
altogether, he was one of the finest specimens of the red-men to be
found at the present day. He had mixed with the white men, and learned
some portion of their civilization without becoming contaminated by
their vices.
“Is Multuomah alone?” asked Glyndon.
“No,” answered the young chief, “there are a hundred warriors awaiting
his bidding yonder.”
He pointed across the Columbia with a dignified action, but some little
pride mingled with his dignity, as if he felt that his consequence would
be increased by the announcement of the force at his command. Nor was he
deceived in this, for his hearers received the intelligence with great
satisfaction.
“Good!” cried Glyndon. “We can wipe the Smohollers out in no time now.”
“Is Smoholler near?” asked Multuomah, eagerly.
“Well, he just is. His head-quarters are in yonder cliff, and he has
regularly besieged us here.”
“Why should he trouble you? Smoholler seldom makes war—though he will
always fight stoutly in self-defense.”
“He don’t like the idea of the railroad going through this territory.
These are the surveyors, Multuomah, Mister Blaikie and Mister Robbins,
and this is Lieutenant Gardiner, from Fort Walla Walla.”
The young chieftain shook hands cordially with all three, as they were
introduced to him.
“How many braves has Smoholler with him?” he asked, continuing the
conversation with Glyndon.
“Nigh on to fifty, as near as I can calculate from their trail; but me
and the boys sent a few of ’em under.”
“How was that?”
Glyndon briefly described his scout and skirmish with Smoholler’s party.
“The Prophet’s men fight bravely, I have been told,” rejoined Multuomah.
“You have never had any brush with them?”
“No.”
“Then you have got a chance now.”
Multuomah shook his head gravely.
“I doubt if my braves will fight against the Prophet,” he said; “though
I have brought them here for that very purpose.”
These words greatly excited the interest of his hearers.
“Then your men believe in the mystical power of this red Prophet?” asked
Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Yes; few Indians in this country doubt the power of Smoholler,” replied
Multuomah. “They dread the spirits that come at his bidding.”
“But you—what do you think?”
Multuomah shrugged his shoulders in a dubious manner.
“I do not know what to think,” he responded.
“Ah! I see; you would like to doubt him, but can not exactly divest your
mind of a certain belief in his supernatural powers. That is not to be
wondered at, for he has shown us some astonishing sights since we have
been here. I think it’s all trickery, but I can’t tell how it is done.”
Multuomah looked troubled.
“You have seen his spirits?” he asked.
“Yes; black and white. Why should he choose those colors, when he is
red?”
“One is the Spirit of Evil; the other the Spirit of Good.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“Never; but I have been told by those who have. It is by means of these
spirits that he has gained so great a power. His followers come from all
tribes, and their belief in him is great. If I was to attack him, and he
should make his spirits appear before my braves, they would fly in
terror; and yet there are no braver warriors in all my nation.”
The four white men, who were listening to him, exchanged glances.
“This complicates the situation,” remarked Blaikie. “I don’t see as this
reinforcement will, under the circumstances, be of much use to us.”
Gardiner and Robbins were of his opinion; but Glyndon took a more
favorable view of the matter.
“We must make it of use to us,” he cried. “We are strong enough, with
Multuomah’s band, to just gobble this Prophet, and I’m going to do it.
The boys may be alive yet, and we must rescue them.”
“But if the chief and his braves dare not fight against Smoholler?”
urged Lieutenant Gardiner.
Multuomah crested his head proudly.
“I dare fight against him, and I will,” he rejoined. “Multuomah will
fight against Smoholler and all his spirits, to gain Oneotah!”
“Oneotah?”
“A squaw?”
These interrogations came from Glyndon and Lieutenant Gardiner. The
surveyors smiled and exchanged glances.
“Here’s a woman in the case—away out here in the wilderness,” said
Blaikie. “Who would have thought it?”
“Why not? There are women everywhere,” replied Robbins.
Multuomah had nodded his head affirmatively to the questions put to him,
and Glyndon now demanded:
“Who is Oneotah, chief?”
“She is the White Lily of our tribe,” answered Multuomah, “and she was
my promised bride.”
“One of your race?”
“No; in her childhood she was captured from the Yakimas by one of our
chiefs, who reared her as his own daughter. He named her Oneotah, but,
from her fair complexion, she was commonly called the White Lily. She
grew to the age of seventeen in our village, and among the many suitors
who sought her smiles, her heart gave me the preference.”
“I don’t wonder at that. You are just the chap to take a girl’s eye.”
“Our wedding-day was fixed, when she accompanied her adopted father,
Owaydotah, upon a hunting expedition. His party was surprised by a band
of Yakimas, under the chief Howlish Wampo, and Owaydotah was killed, and
Oneotah carried away a captive.”
“That was a bad job for you.”
“I gave her up for lost, for I knew that Howlish Wampo would make her
his wife, inflamed by her great beauty. And he would have done so, had
not Smoholler taken her from him.”
“What did he do with her?”
Multuomah shook his head sorrowfully.
“I can not tell,” he replied. “What I know was told me by a Yakima
warrior whom I captured a week ago; but he could not tell me what has
befallen Oneotah since Smoholler seized upon her.”