WHAT HATE WILL MAKE A MAN DO.
Stung to the quick by the refusal of his love, and still more so by the
somewhat tyrannical conduct of the scout, seconded by the physician,
George Parsons suddenly determined upon a bitter revenge.
A frontier born and bred man, he had from childhood been brought in
association with the Indians, and knew their ways. Under pretense of
hunting, he deserted from the little band to whom he had sworn fealty,
and immediately sought for the enemies of the white man.
Fortune favored him. He came across an outlying spy--trailed his rifle,
and turning the open palms of his hands toward him, advanced. It was
a sort of freemason sign, well known to all the dwellers of the
prairies, and it was not long before he and the Indian reached the main
body of the savages, and he was soon seated in council with them.
But the Indians, crafty as treacherous, inquired deeply into the
motives that made a man thus turn against his own people, and give them
to the tomahawk and scalping-knife, or to torture.
"There is a girl among them whom I would make my wife," was the answer.
"Then why does the pale-face not take her?" questioned the chief.
"Because they are too many, and she will have nothing to do with
me--loves somebody else."
"Why, then, is not the scalp of the lover at the belt of the brave?"
"That's just what I want, but I have never had a fair chance. Then,
too, there is the guide of the party who has more than once insulted
me--a trapper who has been here before--knows every foot of the ground,
and I presume you know him."
"What sort of a man is the scout?"
Parsons described him minutely, and the Indians looked quickly from one
to the other, and though there was no intimation given in words, yet it
was evident that they both knew and feared him.
"How many of the pale-faces?"
Parsons enumerated them, and gave an inventory of the train and its
means of defense.
"Will the pale-face fight?"
"No. I don't owe any of them a grudge, except as I have told you, and
it wouldn't look well for me to be murdering my own people."
"Tell the red-man how the girl looks, that she may not fall by the
arrow or the knife."
He did as requested, and found himself forced to endure a searching
cross-questioning, for the Indians still feared treachery.
"If the tongue of the pale-face travels the short trail of truth,"
continued the chief, "he shall be as a brother to the red-man. But if
his talk twists as the path of the serpent, then he shall die the same
death of torture that he would give to his enemies."
"You will find every thing as I have said."
"Then it will be well. Let him give his weapons to the red-man."
"But I might want to use them."
"Until the braves return from the dogs of the pale-faces, he will be
taken care of--be a prisoner."
This was very much more than he had bargained for. But resistance would
have been useless, and with any thing but pleasant feelings he handed
over rifle, knife, and hatchet.
"I will go with you and show you the way," he said, seeking to gain
their favor.
"The red-man needs nothing but the stars to guide them at
midnight--nothing but the smoke of the pale-man's fire to tell them
where he lies hidden. Let the braves take him to the Medicine and tell
him to keep him safe until they return. If his words are true he has
nothing to fear. If not, he will learn what it is to be treacherous to
the red-man. The Sioux are great warriors and they laugh at the traps
of their enemies."
At a signal from the chief the arms of the white renegade were bound
behind his back, and accompanied by half a dozen stalwart braves, he
was led through and beyond the group of wigwams, out into the forest,
and when he questioned where they were going, the only answer he could
obtain was:
"To the Medicine."
A short journey and they reached a bluff by the side of a stream that
found its way through a rocky cañon. A low, peculiar whistle called
from a well-concealed opening the old trickster, who was supposed to
hold communion with the moon and stars, the dead, and the great Manitou.
"The great Medicine of the Sioux," said the leader of the party, "will
take care of the pale-face until the warriors return."
"It is well. Follow me."
Unable to resist, the already frightened man followed his appointed
keeper into the rocky cavern, and by his direction took a seat at
the extreme rear. And as his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the
darkness, saw that he was surrounded by every thing that was devilish
and horrible--by the bones and skulls and scalps of dead men--by bats
and owls--by a hideous living bear and a grinning, snarling, spitting
wildcat, that exerted all their monstrous strength to tear loose and
spring upon him.
"The pale-face will be safe here," said the Medicine, with an almost
fiendish smile. "No one will come to do him any harm while I am
gone. The air is strong with blood. I can smell it--the blood of the
miserable pale-face. I must go and prepare for the torture."
"For the sake of mercy do not leave me alone."
"These," pointing to the savage animals, "will keep you company. But
you shall be doubly guarded."
He disappeared for a few moments. Then returned with a handful of
brush with the green leaves still clinging to them. These he spread
across the cavern, then tore away a stone, and instantly a dozen great,
hideous, crawling, hissing rattlesnakes wriggled forth.
"Oh, God!" burst in accents of agony from the lips of the tortured
prisoner, as he sunk back to the uttermost limit that was possible.
"These will keep guard over you--see that no one enters and that you do
not go out," replied the Medicine, with a devilish grin.
The serpents coiled, twined, twisted, reared their heads, clashed
their scales, shook their rattles, darted out their forked tongues
and flashed their eyes, that looked like great balls of fire. And
momentarily he expected them to creep toward, to coil around, to sting
him to death!
"These," repeated the Medicine, "will be your guard."
"And when, in the name of heaven, will you come back?"
"Perhaps to-night--perhaps to-morrow. But, fear not, for you will be
safe as long as you remain quiet. If you attempt to escape, a dreadful
death will follow."
From the moment the reptiles had been set free, the Medicine had stood
at the door of the cavern, through which a little light came in. Now he
quickly retreated, shutting the entrance after him, and, more dead than
alive, George Parsons was left to the most horrid companionship that
the mind can think of. Every moment he expected would be his last, and
hours passed of sufficient misery to have driven him stark mad.
He knew not the serpents could not reach him--knew not that the subtle
power of the white-ash leaves the Medicine had scattered controlled the
serpents far more effectually than fire would have done.