THE ISLAND TRAPPER;
OR,
THE YOUNG WHITE-BUFFALO HUNTERS.
BY CAPT. CHAS. HOWARD,
_Author of the following Pocket Novels_:
5. THE ELK KING. 50. THE WOLF QUEEN.
52. THE MAD CHIEF.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS. 9
II. THE GOLD GIRL. 17
III. THE VENGEANCE-HUNTER. 23
IV. CHARLEY SHAFER’S RIDE. 31
V. RIFLE, FIRE AND LASSO. 37
VI. WHITE LASSO’S CAPTURE. 45
VII. TREASON. 51
VIII. AN UNEXPECTED ACCUSATION. 58
IX. “YOU’VE GOT MY HORSE.”. 65
X. SHOT BY HIS OWN RIFLE. 72
XI. A VOICE IN THE NIGHT. 79
XII. THE BLOW FOR FREEDOM. 85
XIII. THE SWOOP OF THE AVENGER. 89
XIV. TECUMSEH’S VICTORY. 93
FRONTIER SHACK,
THE ISLAND TRAPPER.
CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS.
“Whoa!”
The Command was spoken in a low tone to a majestic iron-gray horse.
Instantly the fore-feet were plunged into the loose earth, and the
animal became as stationary as a bronze statue.
“Dash me! if I didn’t hear music. Tecumseh, ye heard it, too, for I
saw ye prick yer ears before I told ye to stop. Where is the white
man who has the audacity to be musical in the Pawnee country? Dash
me! I’d like to see him; I’d like to take ’im back to the States
and present ’im to Mr. Barnum. Listen! there it goes again. Music,
certain, no mistake, and it sounds like that which I’ve heard on
Broadway, comin’ from the dirty hand-organs.”
With a smile on his broad, handsome countenance, the speaker leaned
forward in the wooden stirrups, with a half-doubled band behind his
left ear.
“He’s struck up a new tune, and dash me if it isn’t ‘Hail Columbia.’
I’m gettin’ uncommon curious, settin’ here on Tecumseh, and list’nin’
to the first genuine music I’ve heard for five years, and dash me
if--Injun yells, by Joshua!”
The iron-gray heard the new sounds, which seemed to emanate from the
same spot as the mysterious music, and turned his head to his master,
as if to ask what they meant. A furious light flashed from his dark
eyes, and a low neigh told how eager he was to court excitement.
“Steady, Tecumseh, steady!” whispered the frontiersman “The Injun
yells come from the same spot as the music; but still, ‘Hail
Columbia’ remains unbroken. I can’t stand it any longer. Dash me if I
ain’t goin’ to inquire into that music. The old song goes all over me
like an electric arrow, and I b’lieve it affects my old horse. Now,
Tecumseh, for’ard!”
With the last word the horseman settled back into the saddle, and the
steed bounded off like a frightened stag.
Down the right bank of the Pawnee Loup the twain flew, through the
soft gloaming of that delightful May day, 1815.
The horse and his rider were well mated. Both possessed courage,
strength and true nobleness of character, the brute none less than
his master.
The occupant of the blanketed saddle was a medium-sized man,
about forty years of age. His hair, and he had an ocean of it,
was an iron-gray, and shone like silver. The face was smooth,
somewhat cadaverous, but healthy; and the brownish eyes, nestling
between long, dark lashes, were indicative alike of gentleness and
determination. He wore the often-described habiliments of the Western
hunter, and in addition to the long-barreled rifle that lay across
the pommel of his saddle, supported in its position by a great hand,
the only ill-proportioned member of the body, a brace of Colt’s large
revolvers protruded from his buck-skin belt.
“Tecumseh, if ye see danger afore Shack does, stop,” he said, as they
neared the mouth of the Nebraska’s tributary. “We’re gettin’ close to
the place now. I hevn’t heard the red devils for some time; but the
music keeps up mighty well. He’s got out a new tune now--a tune which
the lame old Italian used to grind out before the ‘Arcade’--a tune
which nobody in creation could tell the name of. Wonder if that old
chap hesn’t come out here to amuse the Pawnee Loups? If he hes--”
The sentence was broken by Tecumseh’s abrupt halt, and the
frontiersman spoke a few words which effectually quieted the steed’s
nervousness.
“It’s jest over the rise, thar, on the Oregon trail,” muttered
Frontier Shack, glancing at his revolvers and lifting the deadly
rifle from the saddle. “The Injuns hev played smash with another lot
of poor emigrants. ’Twas but yesterday that they butchered everybody
in Davidson’s train, and now they’ve made new rivers of blood! Dash
me if these things don’t rile me; they run through my marrow like
fiery arrows, and if the Gov’ment would appoint Ote Shackelford
Injun agent, the Oregon trail would soon be as safe as Broadway. But
for’ard, Tecumseh, slowly, slowly, horse.”
The faithful steed now walked cautiously toward a knoll well defined
against the darkening horizon, and when the summit had almost been
gained, a word from his master caused him to pause.
“I’ll be back presently, horse,” he said, in low tones, as he
dismounted and crept forward.
His ears were saluted by coarse but not unpleasant music, as he
executed the movement, and he knew that it emanated from a hand-organ
not far from the opposite foot of the knoll, and between him and the
Nebraska or Platte. The night was still, and the stars were beginning
to appear in the boundless firmament above the treeless river. A
light breeze blew from the water, and wafted the strains toward the
northern lodges of the Pawnees, between which and the river they had
encountered the frontiersman.
Frontier Shack reached the summit of the hillock, and peered over
toward the stream.
“Well, this beats any thing _I’ve_ seen since I’ve been in the West!”
he ejaculated, a moment later. “That’s what I call pursuin’ music
under difficulties. That young chap handles the crank well, but he’s
almost played out, and his friend can’t dance much longer. Dash me if
I didn’t get here in the nick of time; there’s goin’ to be some new
tunes played now--new tunes, by Joshua!”
A moment later the scout rose and walked back to his untethered
and impatient horse, and while he is examining the priming of his
weapons, let us introduce the reader to the scene near the base of
the hillock.
Seated about a fire lately kindled, more for light than heat, for
the air was not uncomfortable, though sharp, were perhaps fifteen
Indians--Pawnee Loups. Their arms lay at their sides, and proclaimed
that they were not dreaming of the presence of an enemy. Fresh scalps
dangled from the belts of the younger warriors, and a close observer
would have detected blood on their hatchets and bows.
The scalps, the blood and their prisoners told, in silent but
unmistakable language, the fate of an emigrant train.
The marauders’ captives were two youths, neither beyond seventeen,
fair-skinned and handsome, and bore a striking resemblance to one
another.
Their garments were of the latest cut in the States, but quite
serviceable for the wilds of the West. They also proclaimed that
they were not the sons of ordinary emigrants, who, unable to thrive
among the populous lands of the East, were seeking homes, Boone-like,
beyond the verge of civilization. Their faces betokened intelligence,
and a bravery suited to the land and times they were in.
One stood near the fire, turning, with a strange desperation, the
crank of a new hand-organ, such as the beggarly sons of Italy grind
on the streets of our metropolis to-day. Long playing had almost
exhausted him, his cheeks were flushed with fever, his breathing
came by gasps, and great blue veins stood forth on his hands and
forehead like whip-cords. He partially leaned against the organ for
support, and his eyes were upturned to a great red star that seemed
to pity him from the heavens. His companion was dancing for dear life
near by, ready to sink to the ground, and die beneath the reeking
tomahawks of the savages, who grinned and congratulated each other on
the tortures they were inflicting on the American boys.
The youths were playing and dancing for dear life. Whenever one
relinquished the accursed crank for a moment, to catch his breath,
the leader of the band, a gaunt savage, would start forward with
drawn tomahawk, and eyes glaring with the most brutal of murders. The
other was not allowed to pause in his forced dance, and more than
once the Indian above-mentioned had thrown new but transitory life
into his tired limbs.
“They will have to tomahawk me ere long,” at last groaned the youth
at the organ. “Nature is almost exhausted; my arm feels like a bar
of lead, and my blood is on fire. Oh! heaven, why did I allow my
adventurous spirit to lead me into the jaws of death? The sweetest
of all homes had I, the best of fathers, sisters--and a mother--in
heaven! Yes, mother! mother! I have journeyed here to meet thee. I
can hold out no longer--there! God help me now!”
With the last words he pushed the instrument from him, and staggered
back with a groan of despair.
The Indians leaped to their feet, and, with a wild yell, the gaunt
taskmaster bounded forward with upraised tomahawk.
The youth could not resist; he sunk to the ground and looked calmly
at his would-be slayer. But a form threw itself between him and the
Indian. It was the form of his young companion.
“Charley, we’ll die together,” said the youngest boy, through
compressed lips. “They shan’t kill you, and leave me. I persuaded you
to undertake this death-journey--”
“No, no, George. The blame is mine! Heaven! the fiend is upon us.”
The boys saw the fiendish face and gory tomahawk of the Pawnee above
them, and George threw himself upon the prostrate body of his friend.
The savage shot an expressive “ugh” from his lips, and stooped to
tear the twain apart, for it was evident that one was to be spared,
when the sharp crack of a rifle rung out on the cool night air, and
the Pawnee staggered from his victims with a death-cry.
The shot started the Indians into fiery life, and, quickly following
the report, a wild yell saluted their ears.
“Scatter ’em, Tecumseh!” cried the hoarse voice of a man. “We’ll give
the Pawnee dogs thunder to-night. Cl’ar the way, ye red devils! I’m
right among ye--Frontier Shack!--and ye’ve see’d me afore.”
Down the hill, like a dusky thunderbolt, came the speaker. He stood
erect in the stirrups, a revolver in either hand, the reins lying
across Tecumseh’s neck. He looked like a demon of destruction in the
light of the fire, and he added new and terrible life to the scene on
the banks of the Platte.
“Trample the dogs down, horse!” he yelled, and as he reached the
foot of the hill, bang, bang, bang, went the chambers of his deadly
weapons.
Not a bullet was thrown away; with each report an Indian fell
backward, and before the white, death-dealing whirlwind they
scattered and fled, every man for himself, toward the river.
The horse was in his glory; he overtook several of the red fugitives,
and knocked two beneath his iron-shod feet, never to rise again.
Bang! bang! and two more dropped dead at the water’s edge; another
shot, the last, and the Nebraska was crimsoned with the blood of a
third.
“We’ve roasted ’em, Tecumseh,” said the hunter, as the steed paused
in the water to slake his burning thirst. “They can’t stand afore ye,
horse, they can’t do it, by Joshua! Now we’ll go back and look for
the boys.”
A moment later Frontier Shack was galloping back to the fire.
He found Charley Shafer on his knees, supported by his stronger
friend, George Long.
Frontier Shack dismounted and knelt before the twain.
“As weak as kittens, almost,” he said, in a kindly tone; “and dash
me, if I didn’t reach these diggin’s in the nick o’ time. Them devils
might hev’ known that ye couldn’t play and dance forever; but ye’ll
live to pay ’em back!”
“I hope so, sir,” said George, his eyes lighting up with vengeance.
“Don’t you want to pay the dogs back, Charley?”
“Yes,” was the feeble answer. “Every dog has his day, George.”
“How came ye hare?” suddenly broke in the frontiersman. “Ye came out
with a train, I suppose.”
“Yes; we were attacked this day about noon. It was a terrible
massacre.”
“Who led the Pawnees?--for Pawnees, of course, the red dogs were.”
“A white man--the ‘Dandy Demon of the Plains,’ I should call him.”
Frontier Shack gritted his teeth.
“We’ll talk about that scoundrel--Tom Kyle--some other time,” he
said. “How many escaped the butchery?”
“Three persons, besides ourselves. They were Mr. Denison, Government
agent, his daughter Mabel, and his niece, Miss Aiken. After the
massacre the band divided; the larger portion went northward with
the three; we fell to the lot of the minority.”
“Where did that organ come from?”
“An Italian was crossing the plains with the emigrants, to try his
fortune in the land of gold.”
“And he’s found it afore he got there,” said the hunter, with a
strange smile. “He’d hev’ done better on Broadway, I think. But, my
boys, ye weren’t emigrants; yer clothes--”
He paused suddenly, ashamed to proceed.
“No, we were not emigrants,” answered George Long, glancing at his
companion with a smile, which was followed by a mortifying blush.
“We are runaways; our parents live in Cincinnati, Ohio, and are well
to do in the world.”
“Then, why did you leave home and seek this death-land?” asked
Shackelford, the stern part of his nature getting uppermost.
“I will tell you the truth,” said George, looking him squarely in the
eyes. “We came hither to shoot white buffaloes.”
For a moment the old hunter stared blankly into the youthful faces
before him, then he rose to his feet and gave a long whistle of
profound wonder and astonishment.
The boys watched him anxiously.
For several minutes he look vacantly toward the south, and then a
ludicrous smile overspread his countenance.
“Who told you about white buffaloes?” he asked, stooping again.
“No one, sir. We read about them in Gregg’s ‘_Commerce of the
Prairies_.’”
“And you believed it?”
“Why--yes!”
Another long whistle which ended in a laugh.
“I’ve heard of wild-goose chases afore,” said the hunter; “but this
beats all of ’em. White buffler! Thet Gregg’s ahead o’ me, and I’ve
seen the plains and prairies from the Platte to the Santa Fe. And
I’ve seen buffler, too, boys; but nary a white one. We’ve got white
horses, white foxes, and the like out here;” but, a short pause,
“Gregg _may_ be right. I don’t call any man a liar till he is proven
one.”
The young hunters took courage at this last remark.
“I wish you boys war at home in Ohio,” said the frontiersman; “but
ye’re here, and I’m goin’ to take care of ye. We’ll strike Fort
Laramie one o’ these days, and then home ye go! But, we’re in the
jaws of death yet, and mebbe two more Ohio scalps and one Maryland
one, may hang at the Loup’s belt afore the week’s out. We’ll go now;
Tecumseh can carry three, I reckon.”
“But hold,” cried Charley Shafer. “What will become of those
girls--they’re in a demon’s clutches.”
“Yer right, boy,” said the scout of the Platte; “but I guess we’ll
let ’em be.”
“No, no!” cried both boys in a single breath. “They shall not be his.”
Frontier Shack smiled:
“Boys, yer the true grit!” he cried, “jest the chaps to hunt white
bufflers. The girls shan’t be Tom Kyle’s long. He can muster three
thousand red wolves. We’ll face him--the terror of the Plains--and
we’ll free his prisoners, or--”
“Die in the attempt!”
The old hunter caught the spirit that animated the breasts of the
youths.
“Yes! yes! I’m growin’ tired of this life,” he said, “and I might as
well die fighting the White Pawnee as trappin’ beaver.”
The next moment he spoke to Tecumseh, and, despite the load he
carried, the noble horse dashed away like an antelope.
“I’ll crease two splendid horses for ye, boys,” he said, “and then,
for Tom Kyle’s pris’ners and--white bufflers!”
The last words were clothed in irony, and they set the two boys to
thinking anxiously.
They had chased an _ignis fatuus_ over twelve hundred miles of
territory--to die, perhaps, at the Pawnee stake.