When Vipan recovered consciousness he found himself unable to stir. A
lariat rope was tightly coiled around him from head to foot, binding his
arms to his sides, and rendering him as helpless as a log.
He tried to move, but an acute pain shooting through his head seemed to
crush him again, and he half closed his eyes, stunned and confused.
A dark face peered into his. A tall Indian was bending over him. In
the grim painted lineaments he recognised, to his astonishment, the
countenance of War Wolf.
"Ha, Golden Face. You feel better now? Good! We will start."
He made no reply. Glancing around him, he noted that the warriors were
making their preparations to move. The ponies, which had been grazing
all ready saddled, were caught; and at a sign from War Wolf two of the
Indians proceeded to loosen the lariat rope in such wise as to allow him
the use of his legs.
"Now, mount," said one of them, as his fellow led a pony alongside of
the captive, who surveyed his steed designate with a dubious air.
"That sheep isn't up to my weight," he said.
"He will carry you as far as needful," was the reply, ominous in its
grim brevity. "Quick, mount."
As he turned to obey a wild thought rushed through the adventurer's
mind. Could he not seize the opportunity to make a dash for it? His
wily guards must have read his thoughts, for, catching his eye, they
shook their heads with a ferocious grin. Then with a raw hide thong
they secured their prisoner's feet beneath the horse's belly, and one of
them winding the end of the lariat rope which served as a bridle round
his hand, the band started.
Ever with a keen eye to opportunity, Vipan noted two things--one that
the band had undergone diminution by at least half its original number,
the other that they were travelling almost due north-east. The halt had
been made not many miles from the fatal gorge, whose frowning entrance
he could just see as he turned his head.
No one could be more thoroughly aware than himself of the desperate
strait into which he had fallen. He had witnessed more than one
instance of men taking their own lives at the last critical moment to
avoid capture and its inevitable sequel, a lingering death amid tortures
too horrible to name. And now even that alternative was denied to him.
The opportunity was past and gone.
"Ha, Golden Face," said War Wolf, ranging his horse alongside his
prisoner. "You thought I should have been hung before this."
"Well, yes, I did. How did you manage to get clear?"
Then the savage, in fits of laughter, narrated all that had befallen him
at Fort Price; how, after a time, he had been allowed a certain amount
of guarded liberty, and how he had deftly managed to disarm the sentry
and make his escape. It was a bold exploit, and so his listener
candidly told him.
"Ha!" cried the warrior, chuckling and swelling with inflated vanity, "I
am a man. Even the stone walls of the Mehneaska cannot hold me. I
laugh, and down they go!"
Several of the Indians gathered around, and the conversation became
lively. No one would have thought that this white man in their midst,
with whom they were chatting and laughing so gaily was a prisoner,
doomed to the most barbarous of deaths at their hands. The conversation
turned on his own capture, and, in a nonchalant way, Vipan asked for
particulars of that feat.
"Ha! Burnt Shoes is not a fool," said War Wolf. "He is my brother."
The warrior named grinned, and at a word from the chief he narrated how
he had slipped away from the main body, and, unobserved by the prisoner,
had gained the rocks over the latter's head. When he was ready he had
signalled to his fellows, who had made that unexpected move in order to
fix the prisoner's attention. He could easily have shot his enemy, but
the temptation to take him alive was great. Therefore, seeing a
convenient boulder handy, he had hurled it upon his enemy's head, with
the most satisfactory result to himself and his tribesmen.
"But," added this candid young barbarian, "your scalp will be mine,
anyhow."
Vipan took no notice of this remark. He knew the speaker by sight apart
from having recognised him as War Wolfs brother. Then he asked what had
become of Satanta.
Here the Indians looked foolish, at least most of them did, while those
who did not, unmercifully chaffed their companions. It came out that
the black steed objected to the new ownership which it was purposed to
assert over him, and watching his opportunity, which occurred while his
saddle was being changed during the recent halt, had concluded to part
company with the band. In a word, he had started off as fast as his
legs could carry him. But several warriors had gone after him, added
the speaker.
"They are after a shooting star, then," said Satanta's lawful owner.
"They had the best horse in the North-West, and they have let him slip
through their hands."
The party had been travelling at a rapid pace, and now the day was
merging into twilight. Despatching pickets to neighbouring heights, the
savages prepared for a good long halt.
Vipan was released from his steed, and allowed to seat himself upon the
ground by the side of a fire that had been built. His captors crowded
round him, laughing and talking in the friendliest fashion, and, noting
it, his heart sank within him.
And who shall blame him? Bound and helpless, he knew the moment had
come for putting him to the most hellish tortures. He read it in the
grim, painted visages closing him in on every side. And between those
ruthless demon-faces he beheld in the background a sight whose meaning
he knew but too well.
Two Indians were busy driving strong pegs into the ground at intervals
of several feet apart.
Then he did a strange thing. Quick as thought, and without any warning,
he spat full into War Wolfs face.
With a yell of rage, the young chief, starting back, swung his tomahawk
in the air. In another instant the prisoner would have gained his wish.
He intended to exasperate the Indian into killing him on the spot.
But the others were wider awake. Seizing their chiefs arm, a couple of
bystanders succeeded in arresting the blow. Then half-a-dozen sinewy
warriors flinging themselves upon Vipan began to drag him towards the
pegs aforesaid.
A barbarity popular among the Plains' tribes is that known as "staking
out." The wretched captive is stripped and thrown on his back. Each
hand and foot is then fastened to a peg driven firmly into the ground at
the necessary distance apart. Thus spread-eagled, he is powerless to
stir, beyond a limited wriggle. Then the fun begins, and when is
remembered the hideous agony that a handful of live coals stacked
against the soles of a man's feet alone is warranted to produce, it
follows that the amount of burning at the disposal of the red demons
before death mercifully delivers the victim from their power is
practically unlimited. In fact, their hellish sport may be bounded not
by hours, but even by days. They generally begin by roasting the
tenderest parts of the body, finally piling up the fire all over the
stomach and chest of the sufferer.
Vipan, aware of the fate in store for him, seized his opportunity.
While the savages were slightly relaxing their grasp in order to pull
off his clothes, he made one stupendous effort. Cramped as he was, his
herculean strength stood him in good stead. A couple of violent kicks
in the stomach sent as many warriors to the earth gasping, and dragging
others with them in their fall. Like a thunderbolt he dashed through
the group, and before his enemies had recovered from their confusion he
was many rods away, speeding down the hillside like a deer.
A frightful yell went up from the startled redskins. A score of rifles
covered the flying fugitive, but a peremptory word from War Wolf knocked
them up. Their prisoner was safe enough, no need to spoil sport by
killing him. Though his legs where free, his arms were bound. A rush
was made for the ponies. The plain was open for miles and miles. In
five minutes they would retake him with ease.
Of this Vipan was only too well aware. The chances of escape had never
entered into his calculations when he made his wild attempt. On foot
and unbound he might have distanced the savages, but what chance had he
against their ponies? A water-hole lay in the bottom, a mile away. He
would strive to reach this, and, bound as he was, an easy death by
drowning would be the alternative to hours of fiery torment.
And as he ran it seemed to the hunted man that this was no real
occurrence--only a horrid nightmare. The events of a lifetime shot
through his mind. Then the thunder of flying hoofs behind.
He glanced over his shoulder. Would he reach the water? Ah, never did
hunted man strain every nerve and muscle for life as did this one with
death before him as the prize.
Nearer! The water-hole gleams cool and inviting. A hundred yards--then
fifty. The roar and thunder of hoofs is in his ears. It stuns him.
Now for the final leap. Then death! Twenty steps more. He poises
himself for the final spring. But it is not to be. The coil of a lazo
has settled around him; he is jerked from his feet, dragged back a dozen
yards--stunned, half senseless.
Then, as he wearily opens his eyes, doubtful whether he is dead or
alive, he finds himself in the midst of a crowd of Indians, all mounted
save the half-dozen who have run forward to secure him. With a
sensation of surprise, his glance wanders amid the sea of painted
visages--of surprise because many of them are known to him, and were
certainly not among the band that effected his capture. And--can he
believe his ears?--the chief of the party, a fine martial-looking
warrior, is giving instructions that his bonds shall be cut.
"Wagh!" ejaculated the latter, with the ghost of a smile. "You have
fallen upon rough times, Golden Face."
Then the prisoner, once more a free man, looked up at the speaker and
knew that he was safe. He recognised Mahto-sapa.
And now a great hubbub arose as War Wolf and his party rode up, and
angrily demanded their prisoner, emphasising their request by making a
dash at the latter. But at a sign from the chief a dozen warriors
placed themselves in front of Vipan.
Then the debate began to wax very breezy, and small wonder. By every
right of immemorial custom and usage, the late prisoner was absolutely
their property, and had they not been "choused" out of a rare and
exquisitely enjoyable form of sport? Vipan, though too far off to hear
all that was being said, caught the name "Tatanka-yotanka" as mentioned
pretty frequently, and it seemed to have the effect of a damper on War
Wolf. That impulsive savage, having indulged in a good deal of swagger,
ended by sullenly accepting the situation. There is not much
hard-and-fast law among Indians in a matter of this kind. If the
redoubted war-chief of the Minneconjou clan, surrounded by a large armed
force, chose to retain half-a-dozen prisoners, War Wolf, who was not,
properly speaking, a chief at all, had no redress, save such as he might
attain by force of arms. But his following numbered barely thirty
warriors, whereas Mahto-sapa was at the head of fully five times that
number.
Dismounting, the Minneconjou chief gravely sat down upon the ground.
Then filling his pipe, and applying a light to the bowl, he handed it to
Vipan without a word. In silence the latter received it, and after a
few puffs handed it back.
"What was said just now about Sitting Bull?" he enquired at length.
"This. I have come out to look for you, Golden Face. Sitting Bull is
anxious that you should visit him."
"Oho, I begin to see," said the adventurer to himself, as he lazily
watched his late captors draw their ponies out of the crowd and ride
sullenly away.
Now, in the debate just held, his rescuer had justified his action on
twofold ground. War Wolf having allowed his prisoner to escape had
forfeited all claim to him; secondly, the said prisoner, being an
Englishman, his presence was required by Sitting Bull, the renowned
chief of the hostiles, for political purposes.