THE INDIAN VILLAGE.
"There's one thing certain," said Jack Carleton to himself, as he
gathered the Indian blanket around his shoulders, like one lying down to
pleasant dreams, "I can keep awake a good deal more easily than I did
last night. I'm pretty tired, but I slept so much toward morning that it
will be no trouble to go twenty-four hours without any more."
The temperature was milder than at that time, so that the lad found the
thick blanket uncomfortably warm when wrapped closely around him. He
flung out his feet and arms as a child often does with its bed
coverings, and adjusted his body so as to keep his eye on the sentinel,
without (as the captive believed) any suspicion of his intention.
The other couples sank into refreshing slumber within a few minutes
after lying down, and it certainly was singular that the warrior who
sat half revealed, with his back against the tree, should have
continued as motionless as did the chief Ogallah the evening before. It
was impossible that two scenes should resemble each other more closely
than those named.
"I don't believe he can keep it up as long as the old fellow did. If he
tries it, he will be dreaming, and when he and the rest awake, they will
find I am miles off and going with might and main for home. My gracious!
but I shall have a long distance to travel, and it will be hard work to
keep out of their way."
Fixing his eyes on the form as it was shown by the flickering camp-fire,
Jack prepared to watch with more patience than he showed in the former
instance. The sound of the splashing brook and the soft stirring of the
night wind were soothing to the tired boy. By-and-by his eyelids
drooped, then closed, and his senses passed from him. Never was he sunk
in sounder sleep.
Nothing occurred to disturb him, and he slept hour after hour, never
opening his eyes until it was broad daylight and Ogallah and his
warriors were astir.
Jack was chagrined beyond expression when he found what he had done,
or, rather, what he had failed to do. The opportunity for which he had
sighed so long had slipped irrevocably from his grasp. So convinced was
he of this fact that he gave over all thought of escape while on the
journey.
"The Indian village can't be far off, and I must now go ahead and take
my chances. But this is getting tiresome."
The last remark referred to the absence of any preparations for
breakfast. He had made no complaint the evening before, but it was a
hardship to continue his fast. Inasmuch, however, as there was no help
for it, he submitted without a murmur.
There was now no pretence of treading in each other's footsteps, but the
party straggled up the ridge like a lot of weary pedestrians. No one
seemed to pay any attention to the single captive, most likely because
there was no call to do so. He might desire to make a break for liberty,
but he could not go further than they were willing to permit.
The top of the ridge was marked by a bare spot, where some charred
sticks showed a fire had been recently kindled. There could be no doubt
that it was there the answering signal had been made to the call of
Ogallah.
But looking down the western slope of the ridge, Jack Carleton's eyes
rested on a scene more interesting than any that had met his gaze since
leaving home. Less than a mile off, close to the shore of a winding
stream and in the middle of a partially cleared space, stood the Indian
village toward which his footsteps had been tending for nearly two days,
and where he was likely to spend an indefinite captivity.
The stream was perhaps a hundred feet in width. It shone brightly in the
morning sun, and the current was clearer than that of the river crossed
the day before. It wound its way westward as far as the eye could follow
it, flowing into a tributary of the Osage, thence to the Missouri, and
so on to the Gulf of Mexico.
The Indian village numbered between twenty and thirty lodges, wigwams or
dwellings as they may be called. Some of them were made of bison and
deer skins, and were of irregular, conical shape; others were mere huts,
covered with grass, leaves, limbs and dirt, while one or two were
mainly composed of stones piled in the form of rude walls and roofed in
the rude fashion described.
These primitive structures were scattered irregularly over a space of
half an acre, which might be called a clearing, inasmuch as only a few
stumps and broken trees were to be seen. But nothing in the way of corn
or vegetables was growing, and the air of dilapidation, untidiness and
squalor pervading the whole scene, was characteristic of the race, and
was that which robs it of the romance which in the minds of many
attaches to the name of the American Indian.
Viewed from the ridge, Jack could see figures moving to and fro in the
aimless manner natural to such indolent people. There were children
running and playing among the stumps and dwellings--half naked little
knots of humanity, who in a few years would become the repulsive squaws
or terrible warriors of the tribe. Three of the youngsters were having a
high time with a canoe lying against the shore. They were splashing the
water over each other, plunging into the stream and scrambling out again
without regard to the wear or tear of their clothing, and playing all
sorts of tricks on each other, while a half dozen playmates were
standing on the bank laughing so heartily that a spectator would have
found it hard to understand why the American race is so often described
as of a melancholy temperament.
Now and then some squaw could be seen trudging along under a load of
sticks, while more than likely her lazy husband was asleep within the
wigwam. A half dozen warriors strolled off toward the woods, rifles in
hand, and most likely with the intention of going upon a hunt. Just
before leaving the clearing, one of them caught sight of the group on
the top of the ridge. Immediately they swung their arms and sent several
ringing whoops across as a salutation to their friends.
Ogallah answered, and he and his party moved down the slope toward their
homes. Having saluted each other in this fashion, the warriors of the
village speedily vanished in the wood. They must have known that the
returning company had a prisoner with them, but it will be seen they
felt no particular interest in the matter.
But if such was the fact respecting the hunters, it was far different
with those who were left behind. The moment the five warriors emerged
from the wood, with the captive walking among them, the whole village
was thrown in a turmoil of excitement. Squaws and children rushed
forward, men came to the entrances of their wigwams, and some strolled
out to make a closer investigation of the matter.
It was a trying moment to Jack Carleton, for it may be said that he had
discounted it during the preceding day. He forced himself to smile, and
when the chattering, grunting, shouting crowd gathered around him so
closely that he was forced to stop walking, he shook, so far as he
could, most of the scores of hands that were pushed against him.
All this was well enough, but it was not long before their attention
took an unpleasant form. Some of the half grown bucks either feigned or
really were angered because Jack could not give them heed, and struck
him with the flat of their hands about the chest and shoulders. The boy
turned when the first blow was delivered, and the Indian indulged in a
taunting grimace. Jack clenched his fist and was on the point of
striking him in the face when his good sense restrained him. He needed
no one to tell him the consequences of such rashness.
The attentions soon became so boisterous that Ogallah interfered. He
flung the crowd right and left, commanding them to disperse, and then
beckoned the youth to follow him toward a lodge near the center of the
village. Jack was glad enough to do so, and was speedily relieved of
annoyance.
The sachem conducted the boy to his own dwelling where none of the
curious dare follow him, though the crowd gathered on the outside and
peeped within, like so many persons seeking a free survey of a circus.
Suspecting that this was likely to be his new home for an indefinite
time, Jack Carleton was quick to acquaint himself with the interior. The
structure, as I have said, stood near the middle of the village, and was
the largest of the collection. It is rare that an aboriginal building
bears such resemblance to those made by the white men of the border, for
the American race has never shown any aptitude in architecture.
Ogallah's house was a log cabin, perhaps twenty feet long by half as
many wide. The logs were roughly dovetailed at the corners, but none of
the numerous crevices were stopped by mortar or clay, and daylight
could be discerned through many a rent, which in cold weather admitted
the keen cutting wind.
A single opening served as a door. Aboriginal ingenuity could not pass
beyond this rude contrivance, so having opened the way for ingress and
egress, the builder was content to hang a bison skin as a curtain. This
could be readily pulled aside by any one, and the door locked by
fastening the corners. Windows are a sinful extravagance to the American
Indian, and there was not one in the village to which Jack Carleton was
taken. When the open door, the burning fire, the hole which answered for
a chimney, and the numerous crevices did not give enough light for the
interior, the occupants went outside to obtain it.
Having put up the four walls of logs and roofed them with branches,
covered with leaves, dirt and grass, Ogallah was content to lean back,
fold his arms and smoke his pipe in placid triumph. The floor was the
earth, worn hard and smooth by the feet of the family, and the fire was
kindled on the ground at the further end, where the vapor found its way
through the irregular opening made for the purpose. There was nothing in
the nature of a chair or bench in the place. Bison and deer robes
formed the couches, and the pegs driven in the logs held blankets, bows,
and furs of animals (most of the last, however, lying on the ground),
leggings and other articles worn by the chieftain and his wife.
These two were the only occupants of the place previous to the coming of
Jack Carleton. Ogallah was in middle life, and had been the father of
but a single son, who died while yet a papoose. His wife was tall and
muscular, evidently a woman with a strong will, and well worthy to be
the consort of an Indian chief. She did not rush to her husband and
embrace him the moment she caught sight of him. Indeed, she had not
ventured outside the lodge, though she could not have failed to hear the
unusual turmoil.
She would not have been human had she not shown some curiosity
respecting her husband's companion. Jack doffed his hat and bowed to her
with elaborate courtesy, after which he leaned his rifle against the
side of the wigwam and folded his arms. The squaw surveyed him for a
full minute, during which he stood as if awaiting her commands, and
then, turning to her husband, the two held a short but vigorous
conversation.
The wife must have been expecting him, for she was engaged in cooking
some venison in the usual aboriginal fashion, and, to the great relief
of the boy, the two were not kept waiting for their meal. Seating
themselves cross-legged on the ground, the half-cooked meat was taken in
their hands, and, with no other utensils than his hunting knife, each
made his morning meal.
And so at last Jack Carleton was a captive among a tribe of Indians
whose totem was unknown to him. Whether he was to remain with them until
manhood, or whether he was to be put to death long before that period,
were questions whose answers he did not dare try to conjecture.
His situation was a most extraordinary one, as every reader will admit.
He knew of more than one instance where children who were captured when
quite small, had become so attached to the rude ways and wild life of
the red men, that they refused to go back to their own people when the
offer presented itself, but it was too late in the day for such an
experience to befall him.
And now, for a time, we must leave Jack Carleton to himself, while we
give attention to other incidents which are destined to have a bearing
on his fate.