“YOU’VE GOT MY HORSE.”
Tom Kyle was thrown into the only strong wooden structure that the
Pawnee village contained, while the young adventurers were placed in
a lodge and guarded by equal numbers of Platte and Loup Pawnees.
Lina Aiken was taken to the Medicine’s wigwam, while Winnesaw was,
also, closely guarded, for she was guilty of the death of two of
her people, and she must certainly atone for the crime with her own
blood. But she had baffled White Lasso, and succeeded in keeping the
white boy from the smoky lodges of the Sioux. That, at least, was a
source of comfort to her, when she knew that the Plattes would regain
their captives, and that she would die with her lips far from his.
Such a state of affairs had never before reigned in the Pawnee
village, and the Indians consequently were greatly excited over
it. The guilt and innocence of Tom Kyle were discussed everywhere
during the day; the Platte braves being obliged to remain to await
the result of the renegade’s trial, which would take place the
following day. The treason smothered so long had now broken forth,
and, in its strength, it swept every thing before it. The conspiring
chiefs chafed at the delay; they demanded an immediate trial; but
the majority of the oldest sachems counseled the postponement of the
crisis, and they prevailed.
Tom Kyle still possessed many true friends, and it was true policy
that their words should produce some effect.
The afternoon was rapidly fading away, when a solitary Crow Indian
rode into the Pawnee village. His rifle was thrown across his
back, as the sign of peace, and his scalping knife and tomahawk
were inverted in his belt. A single feather comprised his head
dress, and it was interwoven in his scalp-lock, in a curious and
somewhat artistic manner. He was an Indian of middle age, but the
thick painting hid many wrinkles, and several vermilion lines on his
massive breast revealed the presence of arrow or lance scars. His
leggings, as well as the sides of his horse, dripped with water,
which proclaimed that he had crossed the Loup fork at its deepest
point, and he busied himself in arranging the drenched fringes of his
nether garments, with a view to enhancing his appearance in the eyes
of his Pawnee brethren.
He found himself besieged by hundreds of women and children, long
before he reached the council square; but he resolutely pushed his
animal through the masses, nor did he draw rein until the warriors
gathered about and demanded his name and errand.
A singular smile played with the Crow’s lips as he gazed into the
fierce faces that surrounded him, and, all at once, he shook his head
and put his finger over his lips, which he drew close.
The Pawnees exchanged looks of wonder and awe. They seemed to
comprehend that their visitor was a mute.
Then one of the chiefs undertook to discover the Crow’s errand, and,
with a few motions of his hands, the visitor bade the Pawnees form a
great circle, which was done.
Instantly new life seemed to inspire the Indian; he performed a
buffalo-chase so admirably that the Pawnees clapped their hands, and
made the air ring with “wewas,” their word for “good!”
The Crow’s actions told his auditors that he and a number of his
countrymen had embarked upon a great buffalo-hunt, which had proved
quite successful, but disastrous so far as the Indians’ welfare was
concerned. They had lost a number of their party, and he had pursued
the buffaloes to the borders of the Pawnee country. His comrades,
grieved by the loss of two sub-chiefs, who had been killed by wounded
bulls, had returned, while he had embraced the opportunity of
visiting his Pawnee brethren for the first time.
His looks, his carriage, pleased the savages, and they gathered
about him with delight, mingled with profound respect. The American
Indian always respects an unfortunate person; they pity any one whom
the Great Spirit has touched, as they express affliction in any form,
and they received the mute Crow with dignified courtesy, mingled with
sympathy for his loss of hearing and speech.
After performing his journey from the Crow village beyond the Black
Hills to the Pawnee lodges, the Indian produced several pieces of
white bark, and charcoal pencils.
Upon the former he drew the picture of a sleeping bear, and then
pointed to himself.
Then he sketched Tom Kyle; held the picture up to the Pawnees, and
looked inquiringly around.
This was not a strange question, for the renegade’s person and
position was well known to the Crows, and it was quite natural for
the Indian to inquire about the king of such a great nation as the
Pawnees.
His question was answered by signs and picture-writing, and he
expressed great surprise at the unexpected turn affairs had taken.
Then he dismounted and confided his horse to the care of the
officiating chief. This announced his intention of remaining to
witness the renegade’s trial and doom.
A lodge was given him, food placed at his disposal, and the curtain
fell upon the Crow all alone.
He did not seem to hear the loudest sound, for a gun had been
discharged close to his head, and he had not exhibited the least
curiosity regarding the shot.
After remaining in the Pawnee lodge for the space of an hour,
Sleeping Bear raised the curtains and stepped out. The shades of
night were gathering from the four cardinal points, and the mute
wandered aimlessly, as it seemed, about the village.
He encountered a warrior whose age reached his own, and they walked,
at the Crow’s request, toward the corral, which contained perhaps a
hundred horses. These animals were newly captured or stolen ones,
while the old Pawnee steeds were browsing along the banks of the Loup
fork, or sleeping on the prairie near the village.
The Crow’s companion was suspicious, and he watched his nation’s
guest narrowly, as they walked along, conversing by signs. Sleeping
Bear did not notice the Pawnee’s suspicious nature; he seemed intent
on telling the story of a famous chase after the wild horses, and at
last they reached the corral.
The horses were biting and fighting each other like wild beasts, and
many already bled from wounds inflicted by hoof or teeth.
Prominent among them appeared a magnificent iron-gray whose fore
shoulders were branded with the letter S. This horse seemed the
king of the corral, for the others fled around the inclosure at his
approach, and many were cowed by his flashing eyes.
The two spectators watched the conqueror in silence, and the Pawnee’s
eyes dilated with triumph, when the horse suddenly galloped toward
them, and poked his neck forward at the Crow with a low whinny of
delight!
The next moment the mute found his throat griped by long fingers, and
the Pawnee was bearing him to the ground with quick ejaculations of
success.
“The horse has betrayed the white hunter,” hissed the Indian. “He
never leaves the Pawnee village, never!”
The keen edged scalping-knife quivered over the tufted head before
its owner could recover his equilibrium, for the Loup’s action was
the work of a single moment.
All at once the Pawnee felt his antagonist’s muscles swell to the
bulk of mill-ropes, and the next minute Sleeping Bear sprung to his
feet like the upward flash of the rocket, as sudden and as resistless.
The Pawnee tried to shriek; but the cry died in his throat and the
Crow’s hand choked him into the realms of insensibility. Once the red
hand opened partially, but suddenly closed again, held the Pawnee at
arm’s length, then let him drop.
One dead Indian lay at the edge of the corral!
During the conflict the Crow, as he styled himself, did not utter a
word, and after the victory he maintained the dogged silence which
had kept his lips sealed since his entrance into Pawneedom.
The iron-gray still stretched his neck over the corral, and the
victor approached and patted it affectionately, but did not utter a
word.
The tarry of the Crow in the village, and the scene at the horse-pen,
had occupied several hours, and the night was well advanced when the
last incident occurred. His absence was not missed; several Indians
had seen the Pawnee join him, and they, no doubt, thought that they
were yet together about the corral.
At length Sleeping Bear walked slowly back toward the village, and
entered his lodge, but a moment later he emerged again.
But few Indians were to be seen now, and the hunter joined a small
group standing near the lodge wherein slept Lina Aiken. The savages
noticed him and proceeded with their conversation. The expression
on the Crow’s face told them that he was a true mute, for they said
words designed to startle him, but without effect.
“The Plattes will take the pale boys to-morrow,” said one Indian. “We
do not want them. We will say that Kenoagla killed Red Eagle, whether
he did or not, and his blood will satisfy our people.”
It was agreed among the conspirators that, guilty or innocent, Tom
Kyle should die on the morrow, and it was evident that none of the
conspirators believed him guilty. They argued that he dared not slay
Red Eagle, when the chief had been a professed friend, and they could
not tell what kind of rifle George Long might have used while in the
trapper’s hut.
After a while the group dispersed, and the visitor returned to his
hut, or lodge.
* * * * *
Half an hour later the door of Tom Kyle’s prison opened slowly. It
was opened by one of the guards, and an instant later the renegade
came forth unbound.
“Where’s the girl?” he asked, in a low tone.
“At the corral.”
“Good! now let us hurry. If Kenoagla is found here to-morrow, he’ll
be roasted or shot, as sure as fate.”
“And the braves who help their king.”
“Yes, Indians, the traitors would scorch you, too.”
With stealthy steps the trio moved toward the corral in the darkness,
and when they reached the inclosure, they were joined by another
Indian who held Lina Aiken in his arms.
“We’ll succeed better than White Lasso,” whispered the renegade,
when his eyes fell upon the Gold Girl. “He can’t steal women worth a
curse. Tom Kyle’s an old hand at the business. Now,” he said, in a
louder tone, but the savage who had waited for his coming clutched
his arm.
“Hist! Kenoagla.”
“What’s up?”
“Somebody’s among the Pawnee’s horses.”
“The devil!”
“Rattlesnake heard him when he came here; but he has not heard him
for a minute.”
“It’s some thieving Omaha,” hissed the renegade, “and he has stolen
away ere this. Catch the animals.”
In a few moments four horses were captured, and led from the corral
at the furthest side. Among them was Tecumseh, the iron-gray.
“By heaven! the gray is mine at last!” exclaimed the renegade, in a
low but exultant tone, as he fondly caressed the steed on whose back
the marks of Frontier Shack’s Spanish saddle were plainly visible.
“Here, Rattlesnake, hold the horse till I mount, and, Big Eyes, you
take the girl.”
The Indian grasped the bridle, and Tom Kyle threw himself upon the
iron-gray’s back. The next instant he gave Tecumseh the spurs, and
the horse dashed away, leaving the three Indians standing beside
their steeds.
They dared not follow Tom Kyle! in the last moment their courage had
signally failed them, and they looked into each others’s faces with
mingled shame and cowardice.
Tom was going to the Apaches, but they dared not ride into those
southern wigwams. They had stolen Apache horses; they were known, and
Tom, they now feared, could not protect them there. Perhaps, when
they had served his purpose, he would desert them. They knew the
treachery of the man they had served.
The renegade glanced over his shoulder and saw the motionless forms
in the starlight.
“The greasy cowards!” he hissed. “That’s Pawnee nature, to desert a
fellow when he needs help; but I don’t turn back now. I’m riding from
a stake, to authority over a thousand Indians, who will not conspire
for a fellow’s gaudy clothes.”
He sunk the spurs deeper than ever into Tecumseh’s rowels, and
glanced down into the pale face that looked up to him with a smile of
malicious triumph.
Flying from a stake to a kingdom!
It was a proud moment for Tom Kyle.
At last he reached a small tributary of the Loup fork and plunged
into the water.
Tecumseh gained the furthest bank, when three dark objects sprung
from the grass.
“Ho!”
Tecumseh halted suddenly, as if stricken by an arrow.
Tom Kyle drew a pistol.
An Indian sat bolt upright on a horse, not twenty yards in his front,
and he saw that a rifle covered his heart.
He discovered more than this. He recognized Sleeping Bear, the Crow,
whose visit to the village he had lately witnessed from his prison.
The Crow had seemed a mute; but had not the exclamation which brought
Tecumseh to a halt fallen from his lips?
The mental interrogative was soon answered to the renegade’s
satisfaction and astonishment.
“Tom Kyle, you’ve got my horse!”
The fugitive king saw all now.
Sleeping Bear was Frontier Shack!