"AY, WHERE WERE THEY?"
By the unaccountable disappearance of his parents and the horses,
Brinton was left in a state rather of perplexity than alarm. The
time was so brief since they left him, that he could not understand
how they had gone far, nor why they did not answer the guarded calls
he made.
He noticed that when in obedience to his urgent entreaties the couple
rode away, followed by his own pony, they went down stream, that is,
in the direction of the current. Surely they could not have passed
any distance, and he believed they heard his voice when, making a
funnel with his mittened hands, he pronounced the words--
"Father! Mother! where are you?"
If they did not reply, it was because of the danger involved in doing
so. It was incautious on his part to shout, even in a suppressed
voice, at such a time.
The bank on his left was a little higher than his head, and so
sloping that the horses could climb out with little effort; but, as
will be recalled, the night was unusually dark, and he might pass
over the plainest trail without knowing it.
He ran some distance further, keeping close to the water, but still
failed to find them.
"They have climbed out of the bed of the stream; something unexpected
has occurred, or they would not leave me in this manner."
He felt his way to the bank, and easily placed himself upon the level
ground above. There he strove to pierce the gloom, but nothing
rewarded the effort.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered, "if this isn't the greatest
surprise I ever knew. It looks as if the ground had opened and
swallowed them."
In the northern sky the heavy gloom was relieved by a faint glow,
which at first he took for the aurora borealis, but a few minutes'
scrutiny convinced him that it was the light of some burning
building, the dwelling evidently of some ranchman, whose family had
probably paid with their lives the penalty of tarrying too long.
"A few hours more, and father, mother, and Edith would have shared
the same fate. It may still be theirs to do so."
The sound of a whinny from behind caused him to turn his head. He
could see nothing, but he was sure that it was one of his father's
ponies that thus made known his presence.
It would have been the height of imprudence, however, had he acted
upon such a belief, after what had so recently occurred, and when a
safe and certain test was at his command.
He emitted a low tremulous whistle of such a musical tone that it
reached a goodly distance in spite of the gale.
"That can be heard further than the neigh, and, if it finds the ear
of Jack, no one can restrain him from coming to me."
But though the call was repeated there was no response. The alarming
conclusion was unavoidable: the sound had been made by an Indian pony
near at hand.
Aware that his own situation, despite the darkness, was perilous, the
youth sat down on the frosty earth, near the edge of the bank, until
he could gain some idea of his bearings.
Within the next ten seconds the whinny was repeated, and this time
seemingly within a dozen feet, but below the bank, and consequently
between him and the water.
He knew what it meant: the hostiles had crossed the stream lower
down, and were ascending it in the search for the fugitives. But for
the fact that one of their ponies showed a strange lack of training,
the youth would have run right into them.
It might be that the reckless horse was a captured one!
They were so close, however, that Brinton did not dare to flee,
especially as he did not know in which direction safety lay. He lay
flat on the earth, with his head just above the edge of the bank, so
that had there been any light he could have seen what was going on
below.
It is rare that a night is totally devoid of the least ray of
illumination. Brinton, therefore, could never believe he was
mistaken when, peering down into the gloom, he fancied he discerned
the shadowy outlines of a horseman move slowly in front of him, like
the figure of the magic lantern. It melted in the gloom, and then
came another and another, until he counted six. The sounds of the
hoofs on the hard ground removed the doubt which otherwise he might
have felt.
"The same party," was his thought; "one is missing, and, if I am not
mistaken, I had something to do with his disappearance."
A different noise came to his ears. One of the bucks was making his
pony climb the bank where the slope was abrupt. The labour was hard,
but after a strenuous effort he stood on the earth above. He was
followed by the others in Indian file, the ascent taking but a few
minutes.
The disturbing feature about this business was that the whole party
had climbed the bank within a dozen feet of where Brinton was lying,
and they halted when so near that he was half afraid some of the
horses might step on him.
Had there been any light in the sky he would have felt they were
trifling with him, as a cat plays with a mouse.
But, if the hostiles could not see or detect his presence, their
horses were sure to discover that a stranger was near.
"It's too bad!" thought Brinton, who, believing that his own people
were safe, was able to give more thought to himself; "it looks as if
there's no getting rid of them. I think this is a good time for me
to leave."
For a single moment he was certain he was discovered. One of the
warriors uttered an exclamation, and a slight sound showed that he
had dropped from his horse to the ground. The youth was on the point
of rolling over the edge of the bank and taking to his heels, in the
hope that the darkness would allow him to escape, when, to his
dismay, a tiny point of light flashed out of the gloom.
One of the hostiles had dismounted to light a cigarette, placing
himself so that his horse's body kept off the wind.
Brinton's position gave him a good view of the operation. The savage
drew the match along a portion of his blanket. The youth saw the
slight streak of light and heard the tiny sharp explosion followed by
the bursting into flame. The buck shielded it with his curving
hands, which were raised to meet the stooping head, as it bent
forward with the cigarette between the lips.
The glare of the diminutive flame gave a peculiar tint to the
fingers, which caused them to glow as if with heat. Then the
reflection showed the arched nose, the broad face, the serpent-like
eyes, and a few straggling hairs on the upper lip, with a glimpse of
the dangling locks, thrown forward by the stoop of the head.
The glimpse was momentary, but it was clear enough for Brinton to
recognise the young Indian as Wolf Ear, who he knew was fond of
cigarette smoking, that being one of the habits he had acquired among
civilised folk.
"I am sorry it wasn't _you_ I shot from his horse in mid-stream," was
the resentful reflection of him who had once been a devoted friend of
the Ogalalla.
The cigarette being lighted, the buck vaulted upon the back of his
pony, where he could be seen by the fiery tip in the dense darkness.
Brinton wondered why the group of horsemen remained where they were,
instead of riding away. That, like many other actions of theirs, was
incomprehensible to him.
But while he lay flat on the ground, debating what he should next do,
if indeed he could do anything, he was frightened by the discovery
that gradually but surely the figures of the Indians and their ponies
were coming into view.
The explanation was that the sky, which had been overcast all day and
a portion of the night, was slightly clearing--not to any extent, but
enough to increase the peril of his own situation to an alarming
extent.
"It won't do to stay here any longer; I wonder why they have not
discovered me before; they will do it in five minutes, if I remain."
His position was an awkward one for the movement necessary, but he
had no choice, and he began stealthily working himself to the edge of
the bank, with the purpose of letting himself noiselessly over to
where he would be concealed from sight. All might have gone well had
he not forgotten a simple thing. The edge of the bank gave under his
weight, and he slid downwards, as if taking a plunge into the river,
with the dirt rattling after him.
The noise, slight as it was, was certain to attract the notice of the
Indians, a few feet away. Brinton knew this, and he did not wait to
see the results. With the nimbleness of a cat, he turned at the
moment of striking the bottom of the low cliff, and bounding to his
feet, ran along below the bank at his utmost speed.
Had he continued his flight, quick disaster must have followed; but
with a thoughtfulness and self-possession hardly to be expected, he
abruptly stopped after running a hundred feet and again threw himself
on his face, at the bottom of the bank, and as close to its base as
it was possible for him to lie.
He knew that he could reach this point before the hostiles would
comprehend what had taken place, and consequently before they would
attempt to pursue him. Since he had no chance against their fleet
ponies, he would have been speedily run down had he continued his
flight down the river bed, for he heard the sound of their hoofs as
they dashed after him.
The pursuers were cunning. Their ears had told them the course he
had taken. Several forced their animals down the bank, to prevent
his turning back over his own trail, while the others galloped close
to the edge above, all the party taking the same direction. Thus it
would seem that but one desperate hope remained to him, which was to
dash into the river and struggle to the other side. But the splash
would betray him. The water was probably deep enough to force him to
swim. With the thermometer below zero, and encumbered by his
clothing, he must perish with cold, if he did not drown.
Where then was the hope of eluding the hostiles, who were clinging so
persistently to his track?
There was none excepting in the trick to which he had resorted, and
Brinton knew it.
He was no more than fairly nestled in his hiding-place, when the
clatter of hoofs showed that one of the horsemen was almost upon him.
He could only hug the base of the bank, and pray for the danger to
pass. It did pass, but it was sure speedily to return. It was this
belief which led the youth to resort to another artifice, that would
have done credit to an experienced ranger of the plains.
Instead of turning about and running upstream under the bank, he
waited until the horsemen above had also passed, and were invisible
in the gloom. Then he hastily clambered up the slight bluff,
rattling down the dirt again in a way that sent a shiver through him.
Had they been as near as before, they must have certainly discovered
him; but if the noise or the crumbling dirt reached the ears of any,
they supposed it was caused by some of their companions, for no
effort at investigation was made.
Upon solid ground once more, Brinton sped straight out over the
plain, and directly away from the river, until he dared to pause,
look around and listen.
He saw and heard nothing to renew his fear.
"Can it be that I have shaken them off at last?" he asked himself;
"it begins to look like it. Where under heaven can the folk be? I
hope they have pushed toward the Agency, and nothing will happen to
them."
Now it was that he detected something, so faint and indistinct that
at first he could not identify it; but, while he wondered and
listened, it resolved itself into the sounds of a horse's hoofs.
They were not such as are made by an animal galloping or trotting,
but by walking. Furthermore, he heard but the one series of
footfalls.
A sudden impulse led Brinton to repeat the whistle which he had
vainly emitted some time before, when groping along the bank of the
Big Cheyenne. Instantly a faint neigh answered, and a pony assumed
shape in the darkness as he approached on a joyous trot.
"My own Jack!" exclaimed the overjoyed youth, flinging his arms about
the neck of his favourite and kissing his silken nose; "Heaven be
thanked that you are restored to me at last. But where are the folk?"
Ay, where were they?