IN THE HANDS OF THE CHEYENNES.
Especially happy was the youngest of the three Indians, who was a boy of
about Glen's age. This was the first scout he had ever been allowed to
go on; and, as he reflected upon the glory of their return to the
village, with that prisoner, those stolen ponies, and all the valuable
information they had acquired, he wondered if there was any happier or
prouder boy living than he. He even had a kindly feeling towards the
white boy, who, by allowing himself to be captured, had contributed so
largely to the honors that would be showered upon him, and he grinned
good-humoredly in Glen's face as soon as the growing daylight enabled
him to see it plainly. Up to this time the Cheyenne boy had only been
known as "Blackbird;" but he had set forth on this scout with the firm
determination of winning a name more worthy of a young warrior. Had he
not already done so? His companions had complimented him on his
carefully executed imitation of a coyote's howl, and one of them had
suggested that he must have a veritable wolf's tongue in his mouth:
"Wolf-Tongue!" There was a fine name for a young Dog soldier. What if he
should be allowed to keep it for his own? There was not another boy of
his age in the village with such a name as that. Now he began to make
some curious motions with his hands, and poor Glen, who, in spite of his
own wretchedness, could not keep from watching him with some curiosity,
wondered what the young Indian was up to. Dropping the bridle on his
pony's neck, the boy lifted both hands to the level of his shoulders
with the first two fingers of each extended upward and forward, while
the thumbs and other fingers were tightly closed. At the same time he
stuck out his tongue. He was spelling out his new name in the Indian
sign language, just to see how it would look.
The boy only held his hands in this position for an instant, and then
dropped them to clutch a gun that was slipping from his knees, across
which he had laid it. The movement attracted Glen's attention to the
gun, and his face flushed angrily as he recognized his own precious
rifle, in which he had taken such pride and delight. It was too bad.
Then the thought flashed into his mind, would he ever again care for a
rifle or anything else in this world? What did Indians do with
prisoners? Tortured them, and put them to death, of course. Did not all
the stories he had ever read agree on that point? Could it be possible
that he, Glen Eddy, was to be tortured, perhaps burned at the stake? Was
that what coming out on the Plains meant? Had life with all its hopes
and joys nearly ended for him? It could not be! There must be some
escape from such a horrible fate! The poor boy gazed about him wildly,
but saw only the endless sea of grass stretching to the horizon on all
sides, and the stern faces of his captors, one of whom held the end of a
lariat that was fastened about the mule's neck.
They all carried bows and arrows slung to their backs, as well as rifles
that lay across their knees. They wore moccasins and leggings of
buckskin, but no clothing above their waists. Their saddles were simply
folded blankets, which would be their covering at night. In place of
stirrups they used strips of buffalo hide with a loop at each end. These
were thrown across the blanket saddles, and the feet of the riders were
supported in the loops. One of them had a pair of field-glasses slung by
a strap from his shoulders.
Until nearly noon they pushed westward across the trackless undulations
of the prairie, and Glen became so faint from hunger and thirst, and so
stiff from his painful position, that he could hardly retain his seat.
His mule was a long-limbed, raw-boned animal, whose gait never varied
from an excruciatingly hard trot. Finally, the boy's sufferings reached
such a point that it was all he could do to keep from screaming, and he
wondered if any torture could be worse.
At length they came to a tiny stream, fringed with a slender growth of
willows, and here a long rest was taken. Glen could not stand when his
ankles were unbound, and he was allowed to slip from the mule's back,
but fell heavily to the ground. The Indian boy said something to his
companions, one of whom replied with a grunt, whereupon the lad unbound
the prisoner's arms, and helped him to reach the edge of the stream. He
was wonderfully revived by plunging his head into the cool water, and
the young Indian, who seemed a good-natured sort of a chap, assisted to
restore the circulation in his wrists and ankles by rubbing them
vigorously. The men smiled scornfully at this; but the boy rubbed away
with a hearty good-will, and smiled back at them. He wanted to get this
prisoner into the village in as good a condition as possible, and was
perfectly willing to be laughed at, if he could only accomplish his
object. He even went so far as to kindle a small fire of dry, barkless
wood, that would make but little smoke, and heat a strip of dried
buffalo-meat over its coals for the prisoner to eat, though wondering at
a taste that did not find raw meat just as palatable as cooked. Then he
tried to converse with Glen; but, as the latter did not understand
either Cheyenne or the sign language, and as the only English word
Wolf-Tongue knew was "How," this attempt proved a failure.
How Glen wished he could talk with this Indian boy. Why were not white
boys taught the Indian language in school, so as to be prepared for such
emergencies? It would be so much more valuable than Latin. He wondered
if he would have studied it any harder than he had other things, if it
had been included in the Brimfield High School course. How far away
Brimfield seemed! What wouldn't he give to be there at this moment? How
would they feel at home if they could see him now?
At length it was time to go on again. The animals, which had been
hobbled to prevent them from straying, left the juicy grasses of the
bottom-land with reluctance; and, with a heavy heart and still aching
body, Glen again mounted his mule. His saddle was the coyote-skin that
had been thrown over his head when he was captured. Now he was given a
pair of raw-hide Indian stirrups; while, though his hands were again
tied behind his back, his feet were left unbound. He therefore rode much
more comfortably now than before, and Wolf-Tongue, who seemed to
consider the prisoner as his especial property, was allowed to hold the
end of his lariat.
All the movements of these scouts were as carefully guarded as though
they were surrounded by enemies. They avoided soft places where a trail
might be left, and whenever they ascended a swell of the prairie they
halted just before reaching the top. One of them, dismounting, would
then creep cautiously forward, and, without exposing his body above the
crest, would gaze long and searchingly in every direction. Not until he
was satisfied that no human being was within range of his vision would
he show himself on the summit, and beckon his comrades to join him.
The afternoon was half gone, when, on one of these occasions, the scout
who had just crept to the top of an elevation was seen by the others to
gaze long and steadily in a particular direction through his
field-glass. At length, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he stood
up, and flashed a dazzling ray of sunlight from a small mirror that he
held in his hand. Again and again did he send that flash over miles of
prairie, before he saw the answering flash for which he was watching.
Then he called the others up; they talked earnestly together for a few
minutes, and, having reached some conclusion, they galloped rapidly
away, almost at right angles to the course they had been following.
Glen wondered what this movement meant; but it was not until they had
ridden for nearly an hour that his unasked questions were answered.
Then, as though by magic, so unexpectedly did they appear, a score or
more of Indians seemed to spring from the ground and surround them. It
was a Cheyenne war-party. Their ponies, under watchful guard, grazed in
a slight depression to one side of them, and their scouts kept a keen
lookout from a rise of ground beyond.
While these warriors were exchanging greetings with the new-comers, and
regarding the prisoner with unconcealed satisfaction, two white men,
utterly unsuspicious of their presence so near them, were lounging in
front of the Lost Creek stage station, less than a mile away. From this
station the scouts had stolen their ponies and the white mule two nights
before.
The ranch and stable stood side by side, and were low, one-story
buildings, with walls of a soft sandstone, quarried near by, and roofs
of poles covered with sods. Behind them was a corral enclosed by a low
stone wall. The ranch and stable were connected by a narrow subterranean
passage, and another led from the house to a "dug-out," or square pit,
some ten yards from it. This "dug-out" had a roof of poles heavily
covered with earth and sods; while, just at the surface of the ground,
port-holes opened on all sides. A similar pit, on the other side, could
be reached from the stable, and another, in the rear of the station, was
connected with the corral.
Lost Creek Station had suffered greatly at the hands of Indians that
summer. Its inmates had been killed, and its stock run off. Now but two
men were left to guard it. This afternoon they were watching anxiously
for the stage from the east, which was some hours overdue.
Suddenly, as they gazed along the distant wagon trail, there came a
thunderous rush of hoofs from behind the station. But the men had heard
the sound before, and did not need to look to know what it meant.
"They're after us again, Joe!" exclaimed one, in a disgusted tone, as
they sprang into the ranch and barred its heavy door behind them. A
moment later they were in the "dug-out" behind the corral, and the
gleaming barrels of two rifles were thrust from two of its narrow
port-holes.
"I swear, Joe! if one of them hasn't the cheek to ride old Snow-ball,
and he's in the lead, too. You drop him, and I'll take the next one."
There were two reports. A white mule pitched heavily forward and its
rider was flung to the ground. A wounded Indian clung to his pony. Then
the whole band wheeled and dashed back to where they had come from,
taking both their wounded warrior and the one who had been flung to the
ground with them.
"Did you notice that the fellow I dropped had a white man's hat on?"
asked Joe, as the two men watched the retreat of their foes.
"Yes, and white men's clothes on, too. I wonder who he murdered and
robbed to get 'em?"