Transcriber's Note: A number of obvious printing errors have been
corrected. Dialect has been left as printed.
No. 2. ONE PENNY.
FREE TRAPPER’S
PASS.
[Illustration]
JACKSON’S NOVELS
JAMES JACKSON.
2 Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, London, E.C.
JACKSON’S NOVELS
FREE TRAPPERS’ PASS;
OR,
The Gold-seeker’s Daughter!
CHAPTER I.
THE RAID OF THE BLACKFEET.
On a tributary of the Yellowstone River, and near to the Bighorn
Mountains, there stood, at the time our story opens, a cabin. Though
roughly constructed, there was an air of nicety and comfort about it,
which could hardly be expected in a frontier log-house. On the outside,
the walls presented a comparatively smooth surface, though a glance
would be sufficient to satisfy one that the work was of the axe and not
of the plane. On the inside, the walls seemed to be plastered with a
material, which, in its primitive state, resembled stiff brown clay;
and it was through a chimney of the same substance that the smoke of
the fire within found vent.
A fair girl stood in the shadow of the rude doorway. Her hair, golden
as the memory of childhood’s days, floated in soft ringlets over her
exquisitely-formed shoulders, half concealing in its wavy flow her
lovely cheeks, mantling with the rich hue of life--cheeks which, long
ago, might have been tinged with the sun’s brown dye, but which now,
miracle though it might seem, bore little trace of old Sol’s scorching
hand, or tell-tale mark of western marches. Blue eyes she had, and a
lovely light lingered in their liquid depths, while her form was one
corresponding to her face, slender, but lithe and springing, well
calculated to endure, along with a stout heart, the privations which
must come upon one thus so strangely out of place.
Half turning, she threw up one beautiful arm, and with her hand shaded
her eyes from the glare of the sun, at the same time glancing to the
right. As she did so, she gave a slight start, for, in the distance,
she had caught sight of an approaching horseman. As cause for fear was,
however, quickly removed, as she almost immediately recognized him as a
friend. Murmuring lightly to herself:
“Ah, John Howell! What can he be after?” She watched with some interest
his onward progress. Why was it that he so suddenly halted? Why did
horse and rider remain mute and motionless, gazing in the direction of
a mound which lay not far distant from the cabin?
From behind its concealing shade, with a horrid yell, a band of Indian
braves at least fifty in number, in single file approached.
The majority of the band came directly toward the house, but the form
of Howell, stationed, sentinel like, upon the crest of a knoll, having
been speedily observed, a squad of four well-mounted and well-armed
braves dashed toward him at full speed.
Half the intervening distance had been traversed before the
trapper--for such was the white man--had fully determined whether their
advance was friendly or hostile in its nature. When at length he caught
fuller glances of their forms, it was with remarkable celerity that
he unslung his rifle and brought it to bear upon the nearest of the
advancing foes, tersely exclaiming:
“Blackfeet, by mighty!”
At the touch of the finger upon the trigger the weapon was discharged,
and he who had been the mark, fell. Without waiting to see the success
of his shot, Howell turned his horse and struck the heavy Mexican spurs
deep into his sides, speeding in hot haste over the rolling ground,
with the three red-skins following in close pursuit.
While these things were transpiring, the main body was marching
steadily toward the cabin. Simultaneously with the report of Howell’s
rifle, the band halted in front of the dwelling.
In front, mounted before a sturdy-looking brave, was a noble-looking
white man. Although his hands were tied, yet from time to time they had
not scorned to eye him with anxious glances, seemingly fearful that by
some Sampsonian attempt he might free himself. Thus, when the party
halted, men closed around him, upon either side, guarding against such
a catastrophe.
The young girl still stood in the shadow of the door, with the fairy
hand shading her eyes; but her face was pale as ashes, and her heart
must have throbbed at whirlwind speed, to have corresponded with the
way in which her bosom rose and fell. It was very sudden. A single
horseman in sight, and he a friend; then to see in a moment more a
half a hundred yelling savage foes! For a moment she looked at them,
but, as her gaze rested on the captive, she raised the other arm, and
stretching forth both, feebly cried:
“Father!” then slowly sunk to the floor.
The prisoner, too, caught sight of the girl, and with a violent wrench
sought to free himself from his bands. Strong as is a father’s love,
the cords of the savage proved yet stronger, and he found himself,
perforce, compelled to act as best suited his captors. They, evidently
fearing something of an ambuscade, were slow to enter, and with weapon
poised with eager eyes, they glanced through the open door. Finding
that their fears had no foundation, they dismounted, even allowing
and assisting their captive to once more set foot upon the ground. At
this close approach the girl somewhat revived. First consciousness of
existence came back, then recollection, then strength, and she sprung
to her feet, rushed between the two Indians who led the van, and
throwing her arms around the neck of her father, exclaimed:
“Father, father! What does this mean? Why are you thus a captive?”
In the background, gazing with a look half inquisitive, half scowling
upon these two, was a man, who, though dressed in the garb of the
tribe, and his cheek deep tinged by exposure, still gave evidence of
being of the white race. He was a short, stoutly-built man, of perhaps
thirty years of age. His hair, dressed in the Indian style, was black,
eyes small, and set deeply in his head, and the brow, though broad, was
low and retreating. From some cause, the end of his nose was wanting,
and this, with the wide and disproportionate shape of his mouth, tended
to heighten the outlandish expression of his physiognomy.
Toward this person did Major Robison--the captive--turn his eye, and,
raising as best he could, his bounds hands, pointed with them, at the
same time saying, bitterly:
“For this, I may thank you, you renegade, Tom Rutter. It was through
his means I was taken; and now that it is done, let him take good care
of himself, else I may be speedily avenged.”
“Look a-hear,” interrupted the man thus addressed, a dark scowl
sweeping over his brows, “I don’t care about havin’ you or yer
daughter; ain’t no interest of mine; ’twon’t do me no good. It am
accordin’ to orders. I don’t know as they wants _you_ partiklar bad
either. Whatever they wants, they’re goin’ to hev--you hev to go
’long now; and when yer free to locomote again, by-and-bye, we squar
accounts. Don’t go to sayin’ hard words agin me an’ them red-skins, if
you don’t want to be purty affectually rubbed out. Jist keep a cool,
civil tongue in that ar head o’ yours, make yer tracks in the right
manner, and you’ll fare well.”
Major Robison, considering that to bandy words at that time would be
dangerous and effect nothing, turned to his daughter, and in a low tone
inquired what had become of her brother, Hugh. The answer was given in
an equally low voice.
“He left me but a short time ago, for a ride across the plains. I know
not what else he had in view; but I much fear that he will return
before marauders leave, and so fall into their hands.”
“Never fear for Hugh. If he is mounted, and with weapons in his hands,
the fleetest horseman in the tribe could scarce overtake him in a day.”
As Robison stated, it did not seem to be the intention of the
Blackfeet to remain here long. But a short space of time was occupied
in ransacking the dwelling, and as they emerged, bearing in their
hands whatever of desirable plunder they had been able to find, Tom
Rutter, who seemed to have, in some sort at least, the command of the
expedition, addressed them in words which, if rendered into English,
would read:
“I tell you we must be making tracks out of this. We have been
successful in our undertaking, but we must not trust to a run of good
luck. You understand Blackfeet, what we want the prisoners for. It is
for your good more than mine, and they must be taken care of. The girl
can’t be expected to walk, so one of the braves can take her on his
horse. If we had time, we might scout around to find the other young
one; but, as we have not, and as he is not necessary, let us be moving
at once.”
If this was Rutter’s opinion, it appeared to coincide with that of the
chiefs who stood around, and preparations were accordingly made to
start immediately. Then, with a yell of triumph, the line of march was
formed, the captives occupying the middle of the file.
As they wound their way around the clump of trees which lay at the
distance of a few hundred yards from the late site of her residence,
Adele saw, nearly half-a-mile away, standing on a small elevation,
John Howell. He had led his pursuers in a half circle, and having
escaped for the time from their range of vision, was evidently bent on
discovering what course the Blackfeet intended to pursue with regard to
their prisoners. Turning her eye from him, it fell upon a moving object
coming over the plain in a direct line toward them. The Indians, too,
saw this object, which, it could be easily discerned, was a horseman,
riding at a quick rate. A halt was made for a moment, and the renegade,
who rode immediately in advance of the captives, half turned on his
saddle, and said:
“That ar’ person comin’ is yer son, Hugh, an’ ef he comes a little
closer, he’ll rush right into our arms. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ye
myself, but it does seem as though luck was down on yer family to-day.”
The bad luck of the family, however, seemed to be partly averted, for,
fortunately, the young man had a companion. This person gave token that
he was an old _voyageur_ on the plains; for his eye, ever on the alert,
quickly caught sight of the hollow and the savages therein. Their
horses were held in, a long survey taken, and then, to all appearance,
satisfied that, for the present, no good could be done by them, the two
turned to one side, and pushed their steeds into a quick gallop. About
the same time, the detachment which had started in pursuit of Howell,
again caught sight of him, and, fired by their success, rode at a
sweeping pace toward his station. He, casting a last look at the smoke
of the burning cabin--plainly visible from his position--another at the
captives, and a third at his pursuers, commenced a rapid flight.
Nothing now remaining for the war-party to mark with their devastating
hand, they fell again into file, and marched on under the guidance of
Rutter.
Signals had been made to recall the men who were in pursuit of Howell,
but their signals, in the excitement of their chase, had not been seen.
Perhaps if they had been, they would not have been noticed. One of
their number had fallen, and his death demanded vengeance. The scalp of
the white man must hang in the belt of a Blackfoot.
The pursued took the chase coolly, carefully managing a horse that
already seemed somewhat tired, he lifted him at every stroke, keeping
sharp watch that he was not gained upon, and evidently steering for
some place of refuge.
A long way off appeared the course of a stream, stretching its slowly
winding length from south to north. Directly ahead lay a small, but
thickly-studded copse of trees. Could the white man see what lay behind
or within it?
There was another cabin there, not very large, but strongly
constructed, and just at the edge of the copse, peering anxiously
over the plain, a young man of some twenty four years of age. Tall,
well-proportioned, with dark-brown hair, and piercing grey eyes,
he made no bad appearance as he stood there, holding in his hand a
white-brimmed sombrero, garnished with a deep black plume.
“It is time,” he was murmuring, “that Howell came. He has been gone
long, and it is not often he delays beyond the appointed hour, yet--ha!
Yonder he comes, and comes right gallantly, though his horse seems
weary. By heavens! horsemen are following him--Indians at that! He
needs my aid, for three to one is too long an odds, even for him.”
So saying, the young man snatched up his rifle, which was resting
against a tree near by, and threw himself upon his ready saddled steed,
making the best of his way out of the thicket, starting at reckless
speed in the direction of his friend and the three pursuers.
The Blackfeet, seeing a mounted man emerge from the thicket, though
the distance was full half-a-mile, partly drew in their animals, as
if fearing an ambuscade; then, seeing that no one else appeared, they
rushed on with an increased fury. The five men, thus triply divided,
were gradually approximating, but the red-skins seemed likely to
overtake their intended victim before his friend could come to his
assistance; and this likelihood appeared to be reduced to a positive
certainty, as the horse of Howell stumbled, rose, and then sank in
its track, completely blown. His rider was instantly on his feet, and
facing the foes, now within fifty yards of him, and coming on at a rate
which must, in a minute more, have brought them to the spot where he
stood. But the hardy northern trapper is not a man who shrinks from
danger, nor does his courage fail him at a critical period. Howell was
one who, in all his eventful career, had never allowed his heart to
falter, or his hand to shake. His movements, to be sure, were quick,
but not flurried, as he brought his deadly rifle to his shoulder. A
careful aim, the trigger was pulled--a flash, a report, and then, with
an half-uttered yell, the foremost of the three persons wildly threw up
his arms, reeled, pitched heavily off his saddle, and fell with a dull
thud to the ground.
The comrades of him who had fallen seemed scarcely to notice the fact,
and only hastened on with greater eagerness in order that they might
come upon their quarry whilst his rifle was discharged.
Howell gave a rapid glance over his shoulder. His friend, at a
furlong’s distance, had halted. It formed a perfect picture. The sun
rode high in the heavens above the great mountains of the west. In
the shade, with the woods and the mountains for a background, his
horse motionless, the young man looked keenly through the deadly
sights of his long rifle. In front of him, with the broad light of the
afternoon streaming over their wild forms, came the swooping braves.
The whip-like crack of the rifle broke the charm. Perhaps it was a
chance shot, but one of the Indians fell, the leaden messenger of
death passing through his heart. Immediately afterwards a crushing
blow, dealt by the butt of Howell’s gun, swept the third and last
of the party from his horse. Half stunned, as he was, he was on his
feet in a moment. Bounding towards his white antagonist, he seized
him before he had time to draw a weapon, and a confused hand-to-hand
encounter ensued. Both fell to the ground, and, tightly clasped in each
other’s embrace, rolled over and over. The savage accompanied his work
with frantic shouts and cries, but the white man held his teeth firm
clenched, and in fierce silence essayed to end the contest. Nor was it
of long continuance. An arm was suddenly raised, there was a shimmer
and a flash of steel, a muffled cry, then the hunter shook himself
loose, rose to his feet, took his tired horse by the bridle, and then
he walked toward the grove of trees and the cabin before mentioned.
The half-mile which was now to be accomplished was soon passed over,
and, as the space in front of the cabin was entered, to the traveller’s
delight, a fire was seen, with long strings of juicy meat suspended
over it, whilst the coffee-pot, that article ever present at the true
_voyageur’s_ meal, bubbled and sang a merry strain of welcome.
The repast was now prepared, and though Howell ate with gusto, yet,
with a touch of that taciturnity which at times is visible in men of
the wilds, he refused to utter a word. At length, when the repast was
over, he raised himself from the floor, on which he had been reclining,
and took a long, earnest, and sweeping glance over the plain. Then,
returning, he took his former position, and opened a conversation with
his companion.
“Wavin’ Plume, I was down the river to-day, and turned aside to get
orders from the major.”
“Well, what did you see? I’ve been waiting for you to speak. It looks
like danger; yet, if there had been danger you would have spoken.”
Without moving from his seat, Howell pointed over to where the bodies
of the dead Indians lay.
“Take it in a bunch, Charley, though it’s mighty rough. The cussed
Blackfeet has bin on a fight with the Crows, and comin’ back they just
burned the Major’s cabin, and gobbled up him and his darter, nice as
you choose.”
As if waiting until he had taken in, and digested the whole of this
intelligence, Waving Plume sat silently for a brief time, staring at
his companion. Then, leaping to his feet, he exclaimed:
“Saddle your horse, quickly! We must have some token here for the boys,
if they come in to-morrow, as they ought to, and then start in pursuit.
Linked in, as we are, with Robison, no question of odds can for a
moment allow us to think of deserting him and his daughter. We can
follow close on them, Hawkins can hurry his men along our trail, and we
may be able to attack them before they reach their village.”
“It ain’t no use to get in a flurry. My animal won’t be fit to start
for a couple of hours yet, and I always was in favour of taking things
cool. Saddle your horse, though, get your traps ready, leave your
signal; and when you’re in the saddle, I guess Jack Howell won’t keep
you too long awaiting.”
As they could not start for several hours, all their preparations
were made with deliberation. Their saddles were first examined, every
strap and thong undergoing a close scrutiny. Next their arms were
inspected, and those things which might be necessary to them while
following the trail, were brought out from the cabin. A moderate supply
of provisions, prepared to keep, a canteen for water, a small flask of
liquor, a rifle, a pistol, a blanket, and a hunting-knife comprised the
equipment of each. With these, and a sufficient stock of ammunition,
the hardy hunters and trappers would willingly strike out upon the
surface of the broad prairie, or into the deep recess of the rugged
mountains, though stirred only by the prospect of a small pecuniary
compensation. Having these, the reader may suppose that the two would
hardly hesitate as to the course which they were to pursue, when urged
on by a strong friendship and a stern sense of duty--and, with one of
the two, a still tenderer sentiment.
Howell led the horses out of the thicket, and stood waiting for his
companion.
“Come on, Archer! We mustn’t loose too much time or the scent ’ll cold.
The black rascals has got a good start on us now, and the sooner we
wipe that out the surer we’ll be about our job.”
“Wait a little,” was the reply. “We must leave a note here for Ned and
his party, telling him what is up, and what we intend. The Crows, too,
if they make any pursuit, will doubtless send a runner here, so that it
will be well to show them the direction in which they can find us.”
“Yer right about that last, though I didn’t think of it afore. As for
Ned, what’ll ye bet he won’t be on the trail, and closer up than us by
to-morrow mornin’?”
With the touch of a good amateur artist, Charles Archer--or Waving
Plume, as he had been named, from the feather that, through storm or
shine, floated from his sombrero--was busily engaged sketching on the
rough door of the little house; and the bit of charcoal was sufficient
to convey a rude, but significant hint to the eyes of any beholder.
A pair of feet, as black as soft coal could make them, and an arrow
pointing in a northward direction.
Simple as this appeared, yet it was abundantly sufficient for the
purpose. The Crows, if they saw it, would understand at a glance, that
the trappers were not only aware of the presence of the Blackfeet,
but had also gone in pursuit. In fact, this idea struck Howell rather
forcibly, for he remarked:
“There you are! If Ned comes in, he can understand that without any
spectacles at all, and so kin the Injuns, if they come to get our help,
which they couldn’t if it was writin’.”