HOLDING A COUNCIL.
Glyndon became interested.
“Well, what did he say? Could he tell you any thing about him?”
“Not at that time; but on my return I expect to receive important
disclosures from him.”
“Return?” cried the old hunter, in astonishment. “Why, you don’t
calculate to go back to him, do you?”
“Such is my intention.”
“Great Jericho! ain’t you satisfied with getting off this time, without
trying it again?”
“I have the Prophet’s word that no injury will befall me.”
Gummery Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“You can’t trust to an Injun’s word,” he said. “They’re lyin’ cusses,
the whole grist of ’em.”
“You can trust Smoholler’s word,” interposed Multuomah. “He will not
harm the boys.”
“I agree with the chief,” remarked Lieutenant Gardiner. “The very fact
of his having set them at liberty now is proof enough of that.”
“There’s something in that,” Glyndon admitted. “But didn’t Smoholler
send us some message, Percy—some intimation to git up and git?”
“He certainly did,” replied Percy Vere. “He appears to be resolute that
the survey shall not proceed, and he will force us to recross the river,
he says, if we do not do so of our own accord. He told me that he should
summon more of his warriors from his village at the Rapids, and, if
necessary, he would call upon the surrounding tribes to aid him.”
“And they will do so,” said Multuomah.
“A pretty hornet’s nest we appear to have got into here,” cried Blaikie.
“And some of the hornets will get snuffed out when they come buzzing
around us,” responded Glyndon. “We can put an extinguisher on this
Prophet, first thing he knows. We’ll bottle him up before he can get any
help from his own village, or anywhere else. But now, tell me, did you
see any squaw with the Prophet?”
“Yes—a squaw called Oneotah!” added Multuomah.
“There, I told you Oneotah was a girl!” cried Cute.
“She is there then?”
This question sprung simultaneously from the lips of Glyndon and
Multuomah.
“There is a singular-looking Indian boy there, wearing an antelope’s
head, which completely conceals his face, whom the Prophet calls
Oneotah,” replied Percy Vere; “and I have reason to believe that this
pretended boy is a girl.”
“I’ll bet my bottom dollar on it!” exclaimed Cute. “She’s got the
nicest, softest little fingers that I ever got hold of—”
“You did not see her face?” inquired Glyndon.
“No; the antelope’s head conceals it utterly—indeed is worn for the
purpose of a disguise, the Prophet himself admitted to me.”
“Does she appear to be under any restraint there?” Multuomah now asked,
with eager anxiety.
“None whatever. She accompanied us nearly to the camp here, and could
have placed herself under its protection, if such had been her desire.”
Multuomah’s features assumed a troubled expression.
“She is there, then, of her own free will?” he asked, huskily.
“Apparently. Indeed, she seemed to be greatly attached to the Prophet.”
“Attached!” stammered Multuomah; and something that sounded very much
like a smothered groan burst from his lips.
“He saved her from some great peril, I judge from some words between
them that I overheard,” continued Percy Vere; “and, now I think of it,
it appears to me that your name was mentioned.”
“By him?”
“No, first by her. Multuomah, she said, could protect her from some
threatening peril.”
There was none of the fabled stoicism of the Indian in the young chief
as he listened to these welcome words. No white lover ever displayed a
more trembling eagerness to learn further intelligence of his
sweetheart.
“Ah! she thinks of me—she speaks of me!” he cried. “Smoholler can not
then have made her his wife?”
“His wife?” echoed Percy Vere, surprisedly. “No, I do not think there is
any such relationship existing between them. The tie that binds her to
him appears to be one of gratitude. As I understand it, he appears to
have saved her from a ferocious chief of the Yakimas named Howlish
Wampo. I remembered the name because it is such an odd one.”
“And I have good cause to remember it too,” said Glyndon, “for he is the
head chief of the murdering tribe that destroyed my home. I heard his
name at the time—he was a young chief then, about the age of Multuomah
here. It grows upon me—I’ve got the idea into my head, and it sticks
there, that Oneotah is my daughter.”
This was a revelation that greatly surprised all, and it made Percy Vere
thoughtful.
“She spoke uncommonly good English for an Indian, I thought,” he said;
“but so did the Prophet, for that matter.”
“Tip-top!” affirmed Cute.
“I think the Prophet would give up this girl, if he thought she was your
daughter,” continued Percy Vere.
Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“I have my doubts about that,” he answered. “These Injuns ain’t so fond
of giving up any thing they have once got hold of. But I do think we can
compel him to give her up.”
“You do?” cried Multuomah, eagerly.
“I just do! There’s one kind of logic that appeals irresistibly to an
Injun, and only one—and that is force. No offence to you, Multuomah.
There’s good and bad among Injuns, pretty much as there is among white
men. Human nature is about the same, no matter what the color of the
skin may be. I think we can get this Smoholler into a tight place, and
make him squeal!”
“I am of that opinion also,” observed Lieutenant Gardiner; “but I would
like to have your ideas upon the subject, as an old Indian-fighter. You
know the best tactics to adopt against these savages.”
By common consent Glyndon found himself constituted the leader of the
party. He accepted the position as a matter-of-course, and proceeded to
develop his plan of action.
“Well, you see, Leftenant, my idea is just this,” he said: “Smoholler
doesn’t know of the arrival of Multuomah and his Nez Perces, and so he
doesn’t anticipate any attack from us. He’s got a party outlying at the
mouth of the ravine yonder, probably a dozen braves, to keep an eye on
us, but his main force is on the cliff, where, I opine, there’s some
kind of a cave.”
“Yes; he told me that there was a mystic cavern in the cliff,” remarked
Percy Vere.
“I thought so. There’s a way up to the top, as the trail we found
plainly shows. Now you can go to him again, my boy, as he might tell you
about your father, and as soon as it gets to be dark we’ll move quietly
through the ravine, surprise his scouts, and surround the cliff on this
side, while Multuomah and his braves cross the river above and unite
with us guarding the other side. Then we’ll have ’em just like rats in a
trap. When he finds out what we are doing you can just tell him that we
have been reinforced by a hundred Nez Perces—and mention Multuomah’s
name, for he must have heard of him—and that we want the girl Oneotah,
and will allow him to march off if he gives her up.”
“Good!” ejaculated Multuomah.
“The plan appears to be a good one,” rejoined Lieutenant Gardiner; “but
there is one drawback to it.”
“What’s that?”
“The Prophet, in his rage at thus finding himself surrounded, might
cause the boys to be slaughtered.”
The surveyors were also of this opinion, and so said.
“We might obviate that difficulty by keeping the boys here, and make the
attack without imperiling them,” continued Lieutenant Gardiner.
Percy Vere objected strenuously to this.
“That would deprive me of the opportunity of gaining the knowledge I
seek,” he urged, “nor would it be fair play to the Prophet.”
“Fair play to an Injun—waugh!” rejoined Glyndon, contemptuously.
“Smoholler was very generous toward us,” persisted Percy, “and I don’t
think we ought to take an unfair advantage of him.”
“Percy’s right,” affirmed Cute. “He did the square thing by us, and so
give old Smo’ a show!”
Blaikie laughed at the boys’ earnestness, though his words showed that
he was of their way of thinking.
“The Prophet has shown a disposition to keep us back without bloodshed,
if he could, as his warnings prove,” he said. “I know that but very
little faith is to be placed in the tribes hostile to the whites, but
this Smoholler may be an exception. He’s an uncommon Indian—there’s no
mistake about that. Now, it appears to me, it would be best to let the
boys go to him, learn what they can, and tell him that we have been
strongly reinforced—let the Nez Perces light their watch-fires on the
opposite bank of the river to that effect—and that he must give up the
girl and withdraw his men, or we shall attack him.”
Glyndon shook his head, discontentedly.
“That won’t work,” he said—“I know it won’t—there’ll be no Smohollers
within ten miles of here by morning, and they’ll take the girl along
with them.”
“Let us secure her while we can,” cried Multuomah.
“Mr. Blackie’s plan is the best,” cried Percy; “and I think the Prophet
will yield Oneotah up to you, if I tell him you are here.”
This assurance surprised them all, and Glyndon received it
incredulously.