PLOTTING.
"Naudoway--see!" had been the exclamation of the brother of the Burning
Cloud when he dashed almost breathless into her wigwam and flung
himself panting upon the floor.
She did not question further at the time. The word 'enemy' convinced
her, as she had before believed, that the renegade Parsons had proved
as treacherous to her nation as he had been to his own, and with the
remarkable patience of her race she waited for further revelation,
brought water and bathed the feet of the nearly exhausted runner, gave
him food and stimulating drinks, and then filled, lighted and handed
him a pipe.
"The trail of my brother has been long and swift. He has known neither
rest or sleep. Will he tell his sister what he has seen?"
He related the story, taking a long time for what could have been
condensed into a few words. He had followed the white man--had seen
him camp with a number of his own race--armed men--with plenty of
wagons and horses--had told them a false story about his wife having
been captured by the red-men and that she was destined to die of
torture. And, believing this, they had promised to come and help kill
the entire tribe and rescue her. But he was to come first--they follow
more slowly and wait in ambush until he gave the signal. Then they were
to rush forward, pour in their murderous rifle-shots and slaughter
indiscriminately men, women and children.
"Is that all?" questioned the girl, trembling with suppressed passion.
"Yes?"
"Does any one know of this?"
"No one but you and the Manitou."
"Then keep it hidden within your heart. Keep it until the Burning
Cloud tells you to speak, and the dearest wish of your heart shall be
gratified."
"Does she know?" he began asking, in confusion.
"She knows that you love the Little Raven, and she shall certainly be
yours."
"But the pale-face?"
"The Raven _hates_ him," and then, under her breath, "even as I love
another."
"My sister will keep her promise?"
"Before the moon of the falling leaf, she shall be singing sweet songs
of love in your wigwam, and for your ear alone."
"It is enough. No torture shall cause my lips to be opened to any but
you."
He passed out, and as soon as he had disappeared, the squaw took from
her neck the richest string of wampum she possessed. She had destined
it to be the brightest ornament at her own bridal. It was one she had
woven for that express purpose. Muffling it in her blanket, she walked
slowly to the home of the Little Raven, and there being no one else
in the wigwam, she laid it in the lap of her friend, and said, in a
mysterious whisper: "This from the Young Bear!"
The eyes of the Raven flashed with as much delight as surprise. Among
all the braves she would have chosen the brother of the Burning Cloud
for a lover. She turned the trinket over and over, and the visitor
fancied at first it would be rejected; but when she saw it pressed
warmly to her lips, and placed next to her heart, she was satisfied,
and boldly proclaimed the secret object of her mission.
"The false-hearted pale-faced lover of the Raven is coming back to
croak into her ears his lying words. She must meet him, pretend still
to love him, lure him on, see that he does not turn aside from the
trail, and let the Burning Cloud know all he says and does. Then she
will see that no other eyes than hers look into the heart of the Young
Bear, and that he sings into no other ears than hers. He will yet be a
great chief, and his name be sung in the councils of the nation."
Wild with delight at the prospect, the young and passion-swayed
squaw was ready to promise any thing, and, after listening to the
instructions of her wiser and sharper sister, she at once took the
trail, and was seen no more in the village until she came back bursting
with the news of the death of Muck-a-kee, and the capture of the white
girl by the renegade lover.
The Burning Cloud inquired very minutely into all the particulars, and
her face glowed with gratitude and smiles as she learned how fate had
favored her.
"But, will the pale-face sleep until the Raven returns again?" she
asked.
"He drank deeply of the leaves that take away all feeling," was the
reply, "and the sun will be above the tree-tops before his eyes are
open again."
"And the squaw with the skin like the snow?"
"She is worn to a shadow, and so tired, her moccasins would grow faint,
be the trail ever so short."
"It is well. Let the Raven go sleep."
Left alone, the Burning Cloud pondered long and deeply upon her course.
The skein was twisted, and she saw no way of unraveling it. The motives
that swayed her were various, and each was strong. Love was the master
passion, and if driven to extremity, she would sacrifice every thing
to that. But revenge upon the renegade was burning strongly within
her soul, and longed to be satisfied with blood. As for the beautiful
Olive, gratitude to the physician would do very much for him, but yet
she had no very strongly marked interest in her fate, save that she
would keep her from torture.
The web was indeed strangely interwoven with bright and dark threads,
and she knew not which way to turn to clear the meshes to her
satisfaction. Had she known of the fate of the scout--as she did
subsequently--all would have been plain. Now she was groping in the
dark. But she had to decide quickly, and after all the time that could
be possibly given to thought she took to the forest, trusting to chance.
Midnight had long since faded into the small hours, and knowing that
it would require all of her exertions to reach the spot--to which she
had been directed by the Little Raven--before the dawn, she ran as
rapidly as her strength would permit. Her keen eyes, trained to the
darkness, enabled her to find the way when another would have been at
fault, and she was rapidly putting the miles behind her when she came
to a little spring that bubbled forth in the center of a dense thicket,
and paused to quench her thirst and obtain a little rest. But even as
she did so she became aware that something was crashing along behind
her and--it might be man or beast--she drew back, hoping to escape
unnoticed.
Vain hope! A black figure almost instantly stopped by her side, and an
angry voice hissed into her ears--a voice that she knew but too well:
"So you have come to meet your pale-face lover?"
"The trail is open and my foot is free," she replied. "Who dare stop
me?"
"I dare."
"By what right?"
"Though you have refused to be my wife yet the honor of the tribe is
mine, and you shall not disgrace it."
"Honor?" and she started as if serpent-stung.
"Ay, honor," he replied, knowing full well that the word would reach
her heart more painfully than a knife would have done. "The words of
the pale-face are ever false. They whisper lies into the ears of the
red-men--they trail them on to shame, and when they are asked for the
father of their children they can only bow their heads into the dust."
"Burning Cloud is the daughter of a great chief," she answered, drawing
herself up proudly. "He who couples her name with disgrace must
beware!" and she half-drew her knife.
He knew as well as she did her pride of birth, and was determined to
sting her upon the most tender point.
"The daughter of a chief when she stoops to love an enemy is worse than
any other."
"Who says I have done so?"
"The whole tribe."
"Then some serpent has hissed the venom in their but too willing ears."
"It is the scout, Beaver Tail, though he stole the name like a thieving
dog, that she loves."
"Well?"
"He has a wife in every tribe."
"It is false as the heart of the Wahkan Shecha."
"The Evil Spirit has poisoned her ears so that she can not tell the
straight trail from the crooked one."
"Who says he has a wife in every tribe?" she questioned, fiercely.
"And when sleep has fallen upon the eyes of the red-man she steals out
to meet him," he continued, without giving the slightest heed to her
question.
"May the Manitou curse and palsy the lips that dare to utter such
lies!" and her eyes rayed out dangerous flashings.
"But the warriors will find his trail and then he will die."
"He does not fear to do so."
"Does the Burning Cloud believe the words he whispers in her ears as
she lies in his arms and gives her lips to his kisses?"
Every fiber in her frame quivered with passion, and the mastery by
which she restrained herself was wonderful. He had heaped upon her the
deepest insults she had ever received, but she was determined to bide
the time when she could safely repay them with compound interest. Now
she had other ends in view--from policy restrained her impetuous temper
and he went on:
"The name of the nation is blackened by Burning Cloud."
"Her trail has ever been open."
"It is hidden like that of the mole."
"What would he have her do?"
"Tell the red warriors where the dog of a pale-face is hidden, and give
him up to torture."
"Well?"
"Then let her choose a husband of her own people."
"Which means you!"
He saw that she had craftily read his purpose even before he had
spoken of it, and went on even more bitterly than before.
"When the children cry for the father they shall never see and beg for
bread--"
She spat in his face before he could finish the sentence, so intense
was her passion. Her entire soul was up in arms and she hissed back:
"Oh, that I were a man but for a moment that I might cram the foul
words down your throat and tear out your lying tongue!"
He laughed tauntingly and she proceeded:
"But, woman as I am, if you dare repeat your words or say aught against
my honor I will do my best to brain you on the spot and let out your
black blood for the cubs of the wolf to lap and grow fat on."
"She should have been a brave," he sneered.
"I am brave. Stand aside and let me pass."
"Listen to me," and he would have placed his hand upon her arm had she
not drawn back. "You shall never be the wife of the pale-face--never
see him again. I have long sought for this hour and now you shall swear
by the great Manitou to be mine or--"
"When you can make the mountains bow down to the valleys, then I will
be your wife, but until then, never."
"Because you love the pale-face?"
"Because I hate you!"
"And you shall have reason. Not far from here is the home of the
rattlesnakes. Burning Cloud knows it well. If she will not be my wife
I will throw her into their midst and none will ever know of her
fate. Thousands of forked tongues will be darted at her--thousands of
poisoned fangs be buried in her flesh--thousands of slimy bodies crawl
over and around her while still living!"
"I would rather die even thus than become your wife," she cried as she
sprung upon him, as suddenly and fiercely as does the mountain-cat upon
the one who would rob her of her young.
Taken entirely by surprise the Indian received a severe wound in his
shoulder before he could defend himself, and then, his anger at white
heat, he grappled with the squaw and endeavored to master her. It
was some time however before he could disarm her, gain possession of
her hands and hold them. Then they stood face to face, she completely
powerless to either injure or escape.
"Now," he asked, triumphantly, "will she promise to become his wife?"
"Never!"
"Then by the Manitou he will give her to the serpents!"
She shuddered at such a terrible fate and made the most desperate
efforts to escape. And he found it most difficult to drag her along.
But he succeeded in doing so, inch by inch and foot by foot until at
last they stood above the terrible den.
"For the last time," he asked, "will you be my wife?"
What should she answer? She could distinctly hear the clashing of
countless rattles--could smell the foul odors--could see the flashing
of myriads of lidless eyes--the vibrating of the forked tongues that
played like lambent lightning. For all the darkness around she could
see the scaly folds of the numberless savage reptiles, that, disturbed
by their footsteps, wormed in a living mass like boiling waves breaking
upon some rocky beach. Horrible--the like of which earth holds not, and
what could she do to avert such a fate?
Renounce the scout--perjure her very soul and become the wife of the
one she not only detested but who would even thus dastardly seek to
make her his own? The bare thought nerved her to even greater strength,
and the battle became fierce indeed.
Then, when the Indian had succeeded in dragging her to the very verge
of the rocky den, a strange light burst suddenly upon their eyes, and
he drew her to him, and grasping her throat, almost strangled her in
his efforts to keep her silent. A light flashed upon them--the report
of a rifle was heard, and, with a mighty groan the treacherous Indian
sunk backward to the ground.
A rush through the bushes was heard--a little party of white hunters
who were out 'shining deer,' appeared upon the scene, and one exclaimed
triumphantly:
"Buck or doe, my boys, it was my shot."
"Great Heaven!" replied the one who carried the torch; "you have killed
an Indian!"
"An Indian? You must be mad."
"Look for yourself."
"God forgive me, it is true. I would have sworn it was the eyes of a
deer I shot at."
"You are not the first man who has been deceived in the same way. But,
what shall we do with the poor devil? It won't answer to have this
known. Hark! What sound is that? A rattlesnake den as I am a sinner!
Here is the opening. In with him, men."
It was soon done. Though he was already dead, his body found the same
resting place he would have given her living one, and that portion of
the party who had promised to assist the renegade Parsons (and were
waiting for him) hastily decamped.
Of the Burning Cloud they knew nothing. The instant the iron hand
unclasped from her throat she had skulked into the bushes and darted
swiftly away.