THE SQUAWMAN’S PROPOSITION.
Carl, the Trailer, was sadly depressed when he saw Lieutenant Parker
ride his horse into Grand River—not so much on his own account, but he
was thinking of the dispatches which the latter carried in his pocket.
Although he spoke encouragingly to him, he did not expect that the
young officer would find his way through to the fort alone. The chances
were that the horse would fail to follow his own trail, and perhaps
take his rider a hundred miles out of his way. But these thoughts had
barely passed through his mind when he was recalled to himself by the
actions of the squawman. The latter took possession of the revolver
which Carl carried in his hip pocket, and then seized him by the arm
and pulled him to the ground.
“Don’t be so rough, if you please,” said Carl indignantly. “I could
have got down without any of your help.”
“I suppose you could, but you see I wanted to help you down,” replied
the squawman with a grin. “You have stayed in this country just to see
how this fight was coming out between your people and the Sioux, and
you have stayed a little too long.”
“Do you think there is going to be a fight?” said Carl. He listened for
the squawman’s reply, and he believed every word he said. Of course he
was going to seek a chance to escape before long, and he wanted to take
back with him some news for the colonel.
“A fight? Well, I should say so,” said the squawman angrily. “Before it
is over you and all the rest of the white people will be food for the
wolves.”
“You believe in the Ghost Dance, then? Don’t pull me so hard; I can
keep up with you.”
“Of course I believe in it, and so does every man who has seen it. If
I didn’t believe in it, here’s something that would set me all right.”
He bared his brawny arm up to the shoulder when he said this, and
showed Carl the scar made by a bullet which had come very near ending
his life.
“You see that, don’t you?” said the squawman, fairly hissing the words
through his teeth.
“Of course I see it. But you had no business to be caught robbing my
father. I did not do it.”
“I know you didn’t; but I have got you now, and I intend to make use of
you, too. Go in here.”
The squawman paused in front of a tepee whose flap was wide open.
Carl entered and found himself on the inside of an Indian house, and,
although he had been in similar situations before, he did not see how
any Indian tepee could be as dirty as this one was. The beds were
scattered all over, for the Indian women had not yet found the time
to gather them up, and on one of them lay half a dozen children fast
asleep. Without an invitation he sat down on one of the beds and waited
to see what the squawman was going to do next. That worthy seemed to be
in excellent spirits, and it was not long before the secret came out.
[Illustration: CARL CAPTURED BY THE SQUAWMAN.]
“Those women you saw outside don’t all belong to me,” said he, as he
took his pipe from his pocket. “One of them is my wife, and the others
belong to my partners, Ainsworth and Tuttle, whom your worthy general
has got in limbo. You heard about our holding up that stage, didn’t
you?”
“Yes, I heard all about it. Some of you fellows shot the driver because
he would not stop for you, and you stand a pretty good chance of having
your necks stretched.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” said the squawman. “But you must not
allow that to be done.”
“I?” exclaimed Carl. “I can’t help you any.”
“Yes, you can. When the war was here—and I know about it, for I was on
the Confederate side—they used to exchange prisoners, didn’t they?”
“I believe they did.”
“Well, now, ever since those two fellows were caught I laid out to
capture you the first time you crossed the reservation, and get you to
write a letter to General Miles, telling him that if he would let those
men go I would let you go. But first there has got to be some little
business between us.”
Carl leaned his head upon his hands, looked reflectively at the
ground, and thought about it. What he had heard went a great way to
convince him that his circumstances were not as bad as he thought
they were. The squawmen had sent these threatening messages to his
father during his lifetime, and he supposed that when he was captured
there was nothing but death awaited him; but, somehow, General Miles
had managed to capture two of the men who were given to holding up
stagecoaches, and that had put a different view on the matter. This
squawman—Harding, his name was—came to the conclusion that he had
better go easy with Carl. He would offer to exchange him—one scout
for two prisoners—and then he would be all right. He could afterward
capture Carl, and do what he pleased with him. The scout saw through
his scheme as easily as the squawman did; and, furthermore, he was
anxious to help it along. Very cautiously he let his hands drop
until they rested on his breast. There was one thing upon which Carl
congratulated himself at the time of his capture, and that was that the
squawman did not attempt to search his clothes in the hope of finding
more weapons. He thought that the rifle and single revolver were all he
had; but stowed away in the inside pockets of his moleskin jacket were
two revolvers which he thought might come handy in time. He could feel
them now, as he allowed his hands to drop.
“Well, what are you thinking of?” asked Harding, as he lighted his
pipe and sat down on a bed opposite to the one Carl occupied. “You can
write, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I can write, but I don’t know that it will do any good,” said
Carl.
“I will bet you can put it down to him so that it _will_ do some
good,” said the squawman with a hideous smile. “Suppose you tell him
that the only scout he has got at Fort Scott stands a fair chance of
being tied up to the stake if he don’t release my partners. What then?”
“Of course I can tell him all that, but you can make up your mind to be
hanged if you are ever captured,” said Carl. “Is there anybody here who
can read writing?”
“Yes; there are three fellows here who used to go to school at
Carlisle,” said the squawman. “You see, after you have written the
letter I will take it to them to see if you have read it to me right,
and if you have I will send it off.”
“It is lucky I spoke to you about that,” said Carl to himself. “I’ll
write such a letter as I am willing those Carlisle fellows should read.
Do they, too, believe in the Ghost Dance?” he added aloud.
“I tell you that everybody believes in it who has seen it,” returned
the squawman. “Everything goes to prove that it is a part of the
religion that the white folks have got up for themselves.”
“In what way does it prove it?” asked the scout. He had a chance now
to learn something about the Ghost Dance. He was more interested in it
than he was in effecting his escape.
“Why, this earth is going to be destroyed,” said Harding. “It is all
worn out now, the buffalo and all the other game is gone up, and we are
going to have it new, as it was before the white folks came here and
spoiled it all for us. Those who don’t believe in the Ghost Dance will
all be killed by a fire or an earthquake or something, and those who
believe enough in it to wear their ghost shirts will be saved.”
“What is that about the ghost shirts?” said Carl; for you must remember
that what this squawman said was all news to him.
“Hold on and I will show you one,” said Harding. “You must say nothing
to nobody about it, for if you do, the shirt will not be of any use to
me.”
“Oh, I will say nothing about it,” said the scout with a laugh. “I
shall not get a chance. If the general will not exchange those two
prisoners for me, I shall be in a bad fix.”
“Won’t you, though?” said the squawman with a grin. “You will be gone
up, sure. However, it will give you a little chance for your life.”
“You bet it will,” said Carl mentally. “While you are waiting for your
letter from General Miles, I will be looking out for an opportunity to
escape.”
The squawman went to one side of the tepee, and after removing the
iron kettle which contained what was left of the breakfast and kicking
aside a few old pots and pans, he finally drew out a buffalo bag that
contained one thing that he prized above everything else upon earth. In
a few minutes he drew out the ghost shirt, and held it up so that Carl
could have a fair view of it. The garment was made of a light buckskin,
sewed with deer sinew, and cut in the form of all the Indians’
hunting-shirts. The outside of it was ornamented with rude pictures
representing buffalo, deer and ravens, who seemed to be in full flight.
“Now, when we get this on, the white man’s rifle won’t amount to a row
of pins,” said the squawman. “The weapon will refuse to fire, or the
bullet in it will be turned aside and drop to the ground.”
“Who told you all this?” asked Carl.
“The medicine man; and he is the one that prayed to the Messiah while
they were on their way home, and he set them miles ahead on their
journey.”
Carl did not say anything, but his thoughts were busy. What a pity it
was, he thought, that Ainsworth and Tuttle did not have on those ghost
shirts when General Miles’ force came up with them.
“You see it is sewed with sinew,” said the squawman, “and that proves
that we must not take anything into the dance that the white man has
made. We can wear anything that we have made ourselves, but nothing
else.”
“Do you think you are going to whip the white man?”
“Not unless we have to.”
“And when you do whip him,” continued Carl, “you will have to use the
weapons he made for you, will you not?”
“Well, that is a different thing,” said the squawman, after thinking
a moment. “Of course we will have to use the weapons he made for us,
and why not? He brought all this trouble upon us, and we would show
ourselves lacking in sense if we didn’t use his own weapons upon him.”
“You say your shirt would not be of any use to you if you were known to
have shown it to a white man,” said Carl. “How do you make that out?”
“All I know is what the medicine man told us,” said the squawman,
packing his garment away again in its dried buffalo skin. “We are going
to whip them easy when we put our shirts on, but we don’t want your
folks to know anything about it.”
“Well, before I write that letter to General Miles you say you have
some business to transact with me,” Carl reminded him. “What is it?”
“It is this,” said the squawman, seating himself once more on the bed.
“You have got lots of cattle there, more than you need, and I want you
to write me out a bill of sale for a thousand head.”
“What will be the use of that? You will not want the cattle until this
fight is over.”
“I know that; but if anything should happen, and our medicine man
should be mistaken, we want to get the cattle without any trouble. You
have left men on your ranch to protect them.”
“Of course I have, and they will shoot down anybody who comes around
there fooling with the stock. But your medicine man won’t be mistaken.
The grass is not green yet.”
“No, but our medicine man sees that our people are getting impatient,
and he has agreed to shorten the time of the Messiah’s coming until
this winter. That is why we are keeping up the dance so long—just to
show him that we are ready for him as soon as he wants to come.”
Carl was astonished, for he had never heard that there were people who
could bring the world to an end whenever they pleased. While he was
thinking about it a shrill voice on the outside of the tepee set up a
shout, and the squawman jumped to his feet and went to the flap of the
door to listen. In a short time he came back again, after speaking a
few words to the women who stood close about the tepee, and said:
“It has come at last.”
“What do you mean? The fight?”
“Oh, no. We have got orders to pack up our houses and move up to the
dance-ground.”