THE CAPTIVES.--FRIENDS ON THE ALERT.
Wearily passed the day to the captives; when night came down there
seemed no sign of cessation from the toilsome march. On, still on, the
column kept its way, until it was only an hour or so before midnight,
that the savages gave signs that their resting-place was nigh. Then
some of the younger braves began to stretch their wearied limbs, while
Rutter looked eagerly around, striving, through the darkness, to see
the various landmarks with which he was familiar. Though the renegade
had said but little during the afternoon and evening, yet he ever rode
near to the prisoners, keeping a watchful eye upon them. Now, as they
came to a huge boulder, around which they were compelled to make a
circuit, he ventured to inform the Major that they were near the end of
the day’s journey, and that they would soon encamp for the night.
This intelligence, welcome as it was, elicited no remark from the
captives.
At length the foremost of the file of warriors uttered a not unmusical
grunt, expressive alike of satisfaction and intelligence. They were in
a small timbered bottom, admirably suited for an encampment. It was
toward this spot they had been aiming, through their hurried march.
Thomas Rutter, however, was not the first man to take advantage of the
location. A party of red-men had evidently remained on the spot for
some time, and the lodges which they had occupied were standing in a
good state of preservation. One of the best of these Rutter immediately
set apart for the reception of the captives. Two other huts remained,
rather larger in size, though hardly as well constructed. These were
made the headquarters of the chiefs; the braves were compelled to take
up with beds on the bare ground, the sky their only roof.
After these dispositions had been made, Rutter sought out one of the
older chiefs, and held an earnest consultation with him. During the
course of the conversation, glances were more than once cast towards
the hut, and then across the dimly lighted prairie. Pursuit was
evidently feared, and the white man was asking the opinion of the
chief, whether it would be safe, under the circumstances, to build a
small fire. For some reason, best known to themselves, it was important
that the Major and his daughter should be brought, safe and sound, to
the land of the Blackfeet, and in order that this might be done, Rutter
insisted that they should have some refreshment after eight hours
travel without rest or food.
“The white brave may do as he pleases,” was the response of the red-man.
When Rutter entered the cabin, bearing a meal, plain, of course, and
such as western men and western women are obliged to be content with,
but abundant and substantial, there was actually an expression of
benevolence on his countenance.
It is supposed by some that sorrow destroys the appetite. If such be
the case, then were the prisoners not at grief’s lowest depth, for they
did ample justice to the renegade’s preparations. Perhaps it was this
that so far softened Robison’s heart as to enable him to speak to the
man before him.
“Perhaps Rutter,” said he, “you can tell me what this thing is going
to end in. You know well enough that I never had any difficulty with
the tribe of which you are now, I suppose, a member. If every white man
had treated the Indians in as fair a manner as I have, there would, or
ought to be, a more friendly relation existing between the two races. I
never was really in your region but once; and then the only harm done
was shooting a deer or two and a grizzly. According to the best of my
knowledge, no Blackfoot’s eye fell on me from the time I entered until
the time I left their hunting-grounds.”
“Waal, Major, yer c’mencing to talk kind o’ sensible. I got nothin’
agin ye, an’ wouldn’t of myself a hurt ye; but I had my orders. If
yer done as ye say, yer won’t be hurt, ner yer darter neither; if yer
didn’t, it’ll be apt to be rough for both. I don’t want yer bad will,
but what I done was all on account o’ justice.”
“I don’t really understand what you mean, but, if the tribe thinks I
ever did it wrong, they are greatly mistaken. Can you give me any idea
of the matter?”
“You’ll find that out soon enough. I got orders not to tell yer
anything, but ye kin calculate on yer darter’s life bein’ safe, anyhow.”
“Thank Heaven for that. For myself I do not care. What I have done, I
have done for her and her brother--her brother is safe; if she remains
so, I am satisfied.”
The inside of the lodge presented a wild and picturesque appearance.
Rutter was standing near the entrance, and the light from the torch
which he held in his hand fell full upon his curiously-shaped head,
bringing it out in all its strange oddity. The girl, young and fair,
half reclined on a bed of skins, which formed part of the spoils of the
Blackfeet in their late foray. The third one of the party stood in the
shadow, so that his face could not be clearly seen, and his voice, when
he spoke, was low and guarded.
“One more word with ye, Major,” continued Tom. “Don’t try to run away,
fur you can’t do it. If ye do; I won’t be responsible fur yer safety. A
chance shot in the dark sometimes goes home.”
“I make no promises, but so long as success seems improbable, I will
not attempt anything of the kind.”
“Thar ar’ one thing. Ef ye git clar out o’ this it’ll be the best thing
that could o’ happened to ye. It’ll pay.”
Muttering over the words, “it’ll pay,” he stuck the torch in a crevice,
and left the lodge.
Stillness reigned within the rude cabin, and in half-an-hour father and
daughter were buried in a profound sleep.
Outside all was silent. At different places around the camp, sentinels
were placed--four in all--but these gave no cry, standing mute and
grim, their forms scarcely to be distinguished in the dim gloom of
night.
For some hours nothing of importance occurred, though the fleecy clouds
scudding across the heavens were drawing more closely together, moved
in darker and thicker procession. The wind, too, came sweeping along
with a moist and dreary sound, that foretold an approaching storm.
These threatening appearances could scarce escape the observation of
the outposts, and their experienced eyes had clearly foreseen that a
rain gust was fast coming.
The red-skins were not the only ones who foresaw the approaching storm.
Hawkins and his party, some two miles distant, looked dubiously about,
and making the best of an apparently bad bargain, prepared, in the
absence of shelter, to submit to a drenching. Not exactly knowing in
what place they were, they did not think of turning their footsteps in
the direction of the deserted lodges, though they had doubtless been
seen by some, if not all, of them.
“I say, Ned,” muttered Biting Fox, “ef the Major an’ his darter is
dragged through this here rain, we mout as well pull horses an’ take
back track. She won’t be likely to git over it; an’ ef one goes under
you can bet the other will too.”
“Wait till it rains, will ye,” was the rather surly response. “Ef it
rains hard forgit sights if they don’t find cover. I hain’t voyaged
here so many years fur nothin’. I know Injun nature an’ Injun luck
right up to the handle. Ef the Blackfeet hes the Major an’ Adele, an’
wants to keep ’em, jist bet yer back load o’ pelts, they’ll take ’em
along slick an’ smooth, ef we don’t stop ’em.”
“Yaa’s, that’s ther ticket. Mules an’ Injuns hev good luck to pay ’em
fur the hard licks everybody’s bound to give ’em. Meanwhile I wonder,
now I’m thinkin’ of it, whar’s Jake. Nothin’ would do him but he must
go on a lone scout, ’cause he felt copper-skins in his bones, an’ he
must er fell in with these ’dentical cusses. Wish he was along agin. If
he does blow like a tired buffalo, he’s some on a fight. Wonder what’s
become of him?”
“Like enough he’s rubbed out,” remarked one, and the conversation ended.
But Jake Parsons was alive and well.
In our first chapter, we mentioned that Hugh Robison, when, to the
eyes of the eager Indians he made his appearance, was accompanied by a
companion, who was none other than Parsons himself.
Jake, by the way, was something of a character--characters are
frequently met with in the far West. Though a painter might hope to
convey a pretty fair idea of his face; an author could scarce hope
to give a respectable description, for, but one distinctive feature
could be mentioned, and that was hair. The hair on top of his head
was long, but that on his face and chin was, if any thing, longer. A
weather-beaten old hat, slouched over the whole, gave him a rather
ruffianly appearance, utterly at variance with his real disposition.
His voice was by no means unmelodious. As has already been hinted, he
was somewhat addicted to “blowing;” but, fighting imaginary battles,
as he sometimes did, he was not, for that, any the worse a fighter in
the general scrimmage of an Indian melee. Self-reliant and courageous,
he cared little for companions, and was willing at any moment to set
out upon a trapping excursion into the very heart of the country of
a hostile tribe. From such an expedition was he returning, when he
fell in with Hugh, and was fortunately with him, when he ran so near a
chance of being taken prisoner. Hardly had the excitement of retreat
subsided, when the natural feelings of the young man began to find
expression, he hardly thought of pursuit. The trapper, on the contrary,
took a more philosophical view of the case, and in words well suited
for the purpose, cheered up the young man’s spirits.
“I tell ye, Hugh, it ain’t as bad as it mout be. Neither on ’em’s hurt;
they have a long journey afore ’em, an’ it’ll be darned queer ef we
can’t git ’em out o’ bad hands afore they stop. When ye’ve seen as much
as I hev, ye’ll not give in so soon to misfortun’!”
“But, what can we two do against so many?”
“Waugh! Don’t ye know that Jack Howell has seen ’em, an’ that Ned
Hawkins will be on the trail afore to-morrow night. They’re in camp,
not forty miles from here, and will scent the game right away. Ef we
foller strait on ahindt--we’ll be in at the death, sure.”
“You know more about such matters than I do, and so I put myself in
your hands. Do whatever you think best, and rest assured that I will
aid you.”
“What do yer make out of that, yonder? It looks to me rather like a
rise of smoke, though, they’d hardly be fools enough to light a fire.”
“It must be a cloud, and yet--”
“Ef I’m mistaken, why then, may grizzlies eat me. They are a campin’ in
them old lodges what the Crows left, when they war on a big buff’ler
hunt up yonder. I know the lay of the land, fust rate, an’ ef you stay
here, I’ll go ahead an’ reconnoiter a bit. I can’t tell exactly whether
we kin do any good, but, I kin, when I see ’em once.”
“Remember to be careful. I would be but an infant here, without your
advice and assistance.”
“In course, I will. I haven’t got sich a great desire to ’pear at a
Blackfoot burnin’, so I’ll try to keep a sound scalp for some days to
come. Lay low now, an’ ef any thing happens, you’ll soon know it, an’
clear out accordin’.”
In less than half-an-hour, the light-treading scout reappeared. He
found Hugh standing on the spot where he had left him, though he had
dismounted, and was allowing his horse to pick up such nourishment as
he could find within reach.
“Waal, Hugh, I kinder guess we can’t do much to-night. They are just
whar I thought they war, camped in the old lodges. I war in among
’em, an’ found the Major war in the middle wigwam; but, as thar war a
copper-skin lyin’ right acrost the door, I didn’t think it advisable to
try to git in.”
“You say that the prisoners are confined in the middle one of the three
lodges, are you certain of this?” anxiously queried the young man.
“Purty much so. That war the one whar the guard war a lyin’ acrost the
door, an’ at the other two, every one war on the inside. But then, thar
ar half a dozen or so lyin’ around loose, so as it’s rather hard to get
between ’em all.”
“Parsons, my mind is made up; I _will_ see my father to-night. I do not
entirely expect to rescue him, but I intend to see him, and, if I can,
let him know that he has friends near, who will do all in their power
to aid him. If I am discovered, I can but give you the same advice
which you gave me a few minutes ago, make off in the dark.”
Astonishment at this foolhardy proposition for some minutes, as well it
might, held the trapper speechless, but he finally recovered his breath
sufficiently to exclaim:
“Why, bless yer innocent soul. Yer sure to be took and scalped. If ye
had had all the experience in sich matters that I’ve had, I wouldn’t
say you couldn’t do it, but, I’ve did it ’onct to-night, an’ I swar, I
wouldn’t try it agin for any money. What ’ud I say to yer father, when
he asked me whar Hugh war? D’ yr think I could tell him I let yer go,
an’ get killed all for nothin’, in a place I wouldn’t venture myself?”
“I have no doubt but that you are sincere in what you say, and that I
would be acting more prudently, as far as I myself is concerned, if I
did not venture; but, I have made up my mind, and go I must, no matter
what the consequences are.”
Further conversation was carried on, but finally, the trapper, finding
that Robison was obstinately bent on going, and alone, reluctantly
yielded his consent. He carefully explained how the camp was situated,
and the sentinels located, cautioned him about being either too
confident, or too timid, and then saw him depart with much solicitude,
considering that he stood a very poor chance of ever seeing Hugh again.
“The young ’un,” he soliloquized, “comes from a good stock, and a
plucky stock. It ain’t many of the old ’uns, even, as would dare to
slide into a camp that way. I like the lad; but I’m pleased, somehow,
that I ain’t along. Ef I war, we’d both loose top-knots, sure.”
Working swiftly but silently an opening, sufficiently large to permit
his body to pass through, was soon made. With a long look around,
in which, he held his breath, and listened intently, Hugh strove to
discover whether, by any means, his presence had been suspected. All
remained silent, and so he entered.
The smouldering remnants of a torch cast an uncertain light over
the objects within, yet it was sufficient to see that the place was
tenanted alone by those whom he sought.
Bending tenderly over his father, he looked in the face of the sleeper.
Then he touched him on the shoulder, so lightly that it produced no
more effect than to cause him to turn partly, and mutter in the uneasy
manner of one who is disturbed in his slumbers. Hugh then laid his hand
on the shoulder of his father, and giving him a shake, the Major awoke.
An exclamation trembled on his lips as he saw the dusky form at his
bedside; but a hand was pressed, for an instant, tenderly but firmly
upon his mouth; by the time the hand was removed, Hugh was recognized.
The reader may imagine the surprise caused by his unexpected
appearance. Both wore silent, the young man, anxious to learn what
would be his father’s opinion concerning his act, the Major because
he scarce knew what he ought to say. At length, in a low whisper, the
latter spoke.
“Hugh, you grieve me! Misfortunes have come around sufficiently thick
without this. You cannot possibly do good by this visit, and it will be
a mercy if you can leave without notice. Indeed, how you were able to
get here, without raising an alarm, I am unable fully to understand.”
“If I could come without being discovered, why may I not go away, and
if I can escape, why may not Adele and yourself?”
“Do not count on such good fortune. I look farther ahead, and have a
faint hope that all may yet turn out well.”
“Will you attempt it?” persistently continued Hugh. “The Indians,
with all their boasted cunning, are not infallible, and my being here
proves that. You must make up your mind soon, for every moment of delay
endangers the success of the attempt.”
“Once for all, no!” answered the Major.
“Then I will leave this place, though I will not loose any chance of
rescuing you.”
The young man silently wrung the hand of his father, and then
approached the rude couch of his sister. The torch, which had faintly
illuminated the tent on his first entrance, had died out, and barely
sufficient light was left to enable him to find his way across the
lodge. Hastily he bent down, and pressed his lips to the cheek of
the sleeping girl, and then throwing himself upon the ground, he
disappeared through the opening.
The heavens were even blacker than before, and the darkness was inky;
so dark was it, that the lodges could not be seen at the distance of a
yard, and Hugh was in a dilemma as to how he should proceed. Though he
could take nearly the same route that he had followed in coming into
the encampment, yet he could by no means be certain that he was in the
right direction; and a deviation of a few yards might lead him into
the arms of the enemy. Revolving in his mind, for a few minutes, the
chances of escape, the path he must pursue, and looking behind him,
Hugh assumed a stooping posture, and boldly pushed on, resolved to do
his best, and, should it come to that, not to allow himself to be taken
without a hard fight. His progress was difficult; more than once he
felt inclined to rejoice that his father had refused to accompany him.
Perhaps two-thirds of the most dangerous part of the way had been
passed over when a sound came to his ears, which seemed to be different
from any made by wind or weather.
The “ugh” of a sentinel came to the ear of the listener, and then a
reply was made, in the shape of a few words spoken--evidently by a
different person--in the dialect of the tribe, with which he was but
slightly acquainted. A short conversation took place between the two
sentinels; the subject of it was the weather. An approaching storm was
clearly foreseen, and, as the guard had but lately relieved--while
Robison was in the inside of the lodge--and they would consequently
be compelled to endure the inclemency of the weather, they seemed to
be desirous, if not of seeking shelter, at least to seek solace in
tobacco.
This subject being broached, a search was made for the materials,
and then a dead silence, which was not of long duration, ensued.
Unfortunately, neither of them possessed the desired weed. They
listened attentively. No sound could be heard, though but a yard or two
from them the heart of a white man beat loud and strong.
The savage with whom Hugh was contending, succeeded in grasping him
by the throat. The young man made a fierce lunge with his knife,
but it missed its mark, and the hold on his windpipe was gradually
tightening. So far, the Indian had had no weapon in his hands; now,
with the disengaged arm, he reached for his knife. He felt his physical
superiority, and glorified in it.
The storm, which had been for so long rising, reached its culminating
point, and now it burst over the encampment with a tenfold violence,
on account of its delay. Just as the red-man was concentrating all
his energies for a decisive effort, there came a blinding flash of
lightning, revealing, with its lurid glare, the three lodges, the group
of Indians, and the death-struggle taking place in the clump of bushes.
The grasp on the neck of young Robison relaxed, as the Indian,
frightened by the glare of light, for a moment cowered back. That
moment was his last. Even as the rolling burst of thunder came, the
knife of Hugh Robison went to the hilt into his heart, and the warm
life-blood came spurting out in a crimson tide.
“Whoop!” shouted Jake, divining that the thing was done, though he
could not see it. “Go it, boys! Pitch into ’em, and hurrah for the
Major.”
The rain came rushing down, and Jake, bound to do all the damage in his
power, discharged his rifle in the direction of the group which he had
seen. A wild cry told that the shot had taken effect, and, catching
Hugh by the arm, he hurried him away from the spot. Through the trees
and underbrush, crashing and tearing, the two rushed, the savages,
recovered from their momentary panic, and understanding how few was the
number of their opponents, following hard in their wake.
“Can you find your way?” hurriedly asked the trapper. “If you can, our
best plan is to separate--one of us may escape; but this here way,
we’re bound to be both of us taken.”
“All right! I think I can make it. If you think it’s best, cut loose,
and take the chances.”
“Then here goes,” responded Jake, as he turned almost at right angles
to their present course, leaving his companion to pursue his way alone.
The distance was but short, and soon he found himself within the limits
of their camp, with his hand resting on the bridle of his steed.
“Safe at last!” he cried, and vaulted into his saddle. “Jake can take
care of himself. It is a fearful night, but I must leave him; the
blood-hounds may strike my track if I delay.”
With a cheer, expressive of delight and of defiance, he clapped spurs
to his horse’s sides, and dashed away through the darkness, leaving his
pursuers to give vent to their disappointment in the yells and curses.
Tom Rutter listened for a moment, and then shouted out:
“There’s another one to look arter. Can’t ye tell that by the sound?”
* * * * *
Ned Hawkins and his party, in doubt as to what course they should
pursue, were discussing the state of affairs when the first flash of
lightning, and its attendant thunder-clap, came. As the rain rushed
down, the five drew closer together, sheltering themselves, as much as
possible, with their blankets. They had stood perhaps for a quarter
of an hour exposed to the pitiless drenching of the rain, when Bill
Stevens uttered a low, warning:
“Hush!”
All listened, and the sound of a horse, travelling at full gallop, was
distinctly heard.
“By thunder! I ought to know that gallop,” whispered Stevens. “If that
ain’t the Major’s bay mare, then may grizzlies eat me. It can’t be that
one of them cussed Indians has her. I goes in for hailin’ ’em, and see.
Ef it’s Injun its all right--we’re all near the Major. If it ain’t
Injun, we’re all right anyhow, for it’s one of Robison’s family.”
The stranger was now so near that he seemed to be likely to run
right upon them, if they did not give him notice of their presence;
accordingly Ned Hawkins hailed him with:
“Who goes thar?”
A sound followed, as though the horse had been thrown violently back on
its haunches, and the response came:
“A friend! Who are you?”
“Hurrah!” sang out Bill Stevens; “I know’d I was right. It’s Hugh
Robison, on the little mare. We’re friends, too, so come along this
way, and take care you don’t stumble over us. What in thunder are you
doin’ here?”
“I should know that voice,” responded Hugh, for it was he; “if I am not
mistaken, it is Bill Stevens, and I am glad enough to meet you. But be
careful how you talk, for I am not sure but that there is half-a-score
of Blackfeet after me. It has been a touch and go.”
“Let ’em come--cuss ’em. We let about twenty on ’em keep their scalps
to-night of pure marcy; but ef we get another chance, they’ll hev to
look out. Now can you tell the number of the Indians, and how they are
occupied?--in fact, give us all the information possible, as well as
your opinion about the success we will probably meet with.”
“By making a bold stroke we might succeed in carrying off my father,
but as I have just had a conversation with him, I can look at the
matter more rationally than you would think. There are twenty-nine of
the Blackfeet, besides Tom Rutter, who is as good as three more. The
whole camp is alarmed, and it’s my opinion that we wouldn’t stand a
chance with them. My father says that he thinks they are acting from
a motive, in carrying him off, and he has hopes of escaping without
having recourse to violence. If it were not for Adele, he would feel
perfectly at ease.”
“How in thunder did you see him, Hugh? If he war in their hands, it
’ud be next to impossible for a prairie-dog to git in to him without
bein’ shot, let alone you, who, meanin’ no disrespect, never had any
experience of scoutin’.”
“To tell the truth, it was none of the easiest, but Jake and myself
followed the trail all day, and then, when night came, he crawled in
on them, and found out how the land lay. I could not stand it, to know
that father was so near, and I not to be able to speak to him, so I
made him give me the directions, and I struck for the place. I had not
much trouble getting in, but it was a near thing with me getting away
again; and, as I have not heard anything of Parsons, I’m afraid he has
got into difficulty.”
“Never mind him. Just you keep cool, and as dry as possible, and by
day-break we’ll be on the trail; git ’em startled, and there is no such
thing as calming ’em down.”
The rain still beat down on the party of six, but their heavy blankets
were sufficient to shield their ammunition, as well as their persons,
from its power, and, though the time hung dully on their hands, morning
light soon arrived, the darkness and the rain being driven away very
nearly at the same time.
As Hugh Robison had stated, the Indian encampment was in a beautiful
state of confusion, the different braves being greatly surprised at the
sudden attack--for attack they at first supposed the presence of Hugh
and his companion to be. Tom Rutter was the first to understand the
true state of affairs. It took but little reflection to show him that
Parsons, with one other, constituted the whole force of the invaders.
He came to this conclusion from the fact that he had seen the two
together but a few hours before, that, if there had been more than
one trapper, they would have given a more substantial proof of their
presence, and, finally, that the young man would be just the person to
make a desperate attempt to rescue his father and sister.
Minute after minute passed by, and the shouts died away, and then the
tread of the returning savages was heard. At the moment of deepest
excitement, Tom Rutter had not been forgetful of his charge. Returning
from the unsuccessful chase of the fugitives, Rutter immediately bent
his footsteps in the direction of the prison-house of the Major,
desirous of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that his escape had not
been effected.
He entered the hut with a brand from which the blaze had been
extinguished by the rain, and the few coals remaining on it were
crackling and spitting, as he endeavoured to blow them again into a
flame.
Half apologetically, Rutter remarked:
“How did that hole git thar? It warn’t thar last night, an’ someone
must hev made it.”
“You can feel easy, as far as either of us are concerned, for it was
made by neither of us,” was the response of Robison. “If your guards
choose to go to sleep, or permit such things to be done, I am sure the
fault is none of mine.”
The old chief had followed Rutter, and saw the aperture with as much
surprise, although he uttered no exclamation. He remarked to the
renegade, in a low tone, and using the Indian dialect:
“The young man has been here, and has entered the lodge. The braves who
watched must have slept at their posts. He has come once, and left his
mark; next time he will leave a broader one. We must hasten into our
own country, where he cannot follow, for I see he is very brave.”
“That’s so, the whole tribe on ’em is of jist sich a stock, and there’s
a dozen or more o’ trappers, as is clar grit, what’ll be arter us as
soon as they git wind o’ the Major bein’ off. Yer ain’t safe from them
kind o’ fellers, even when yer sittin’ in yer own lodge. They’d think
no more o’ shootin’ ye than poppin’ over a beaver or a buffalo. But we
must set a man to watch that thar hole till we start, which, accordin’
to my notion, won’t be so drefful long.”
“Ugh!” said the chief, and the two departed to their lodge; there to
wait until the morning dawned.
* * * * *
It was near four o’clock in the afternoon, when a party of six men,
clad in the rough garments of trappers, and under the guidance of
the redoubtable Ned Hawkins, pushed their jaded horses resolutely
into the Yellowstone River; now swollen by the rain of the previous
night, to a very respectable stream. They did not cross at the regular
fording-place--so frequently used as to have received the specific
name of “the Great Crossing;” but, fearful that if they did, their
trail would be observed by those from whom they wished it to be
concealed--the six struck the stream five or six hundred yards further
up. Somewhat wearied and worn with a long march, Hawkins led his little
command into the thick clump of oziers, and then, without saying a
word, threw himself from his horse, his companions following his
example. Scarce ten minutes from the time when the last man appeared,
two men might have been seen urging their steeds in the same direction.
Hawkins, ever watchful, had observed them when they were at least a
quarter of a mile away. The trail, recent and plain, had attracted
their attention, and one of the two had dismounted from his horse to
examine it. Presently his cap was seen to fly into the air, and he
waved his hand, as though he had made a pleasing discovery; then he
remounted, and, with his comrade following close by his side, pressed
upon the trail, bearing straight for the river, and the clump of oziers.
“Sure as death, thar comes Wavin’ Plume and Jack Howell. I thought
they’d be makin’ in this direction ’fore long,” murmured Ned, to his
friends, who were engaged in scrutinizing the strangers.
“They’re welcome as fair weather! The more the merrier; and if a few
more on us turns up we kin jist walk off the Major without sayin’ ‘by
yer leave.’”
Ten minutes more brought Night Hawk and his friend into the centre
of the little circle, which stood waiting to receive them. A hearty
welcome greeted them, and then one of the men asked:
“How did you come to follow us here? You must have made a straight shot
to make such a centre hit.”
“I cannot say that it was through my own peculiar sagacity,” said
Waving Plume. “A ghost, spectre, wizzard, or something of that kind,
but looking, however, like an Indian, stumbled upon us while we were
roving about last night, and ordered us to be at the Great Crossing
before nightfall of to-day. Knowing no other place of that name, my
friend and I journeyed in this direction, and here we are.”
Almost at the same instant, Waving Plume’s eye rested on the same
object.
“Here they come,” whispered he. “Is it friend or foe, Ned?”
“Could hardly tell at this distance. Might be mistaken, as the
half-breed might be comin’ with twenty or thirty of the Crows. Rather
of opinion, though, that it’s Blackfeet; if so, get ready your
shootin’-irons, an’ loosen yer knives. We’ll have one pelt at ’em,
anyhow.”
Five minutes more and the train were within a few hundred yards of
the river--there could be no doubt but that they were the anxiously
expected enemy. The moon had not yet risen, but by the starlight their
numbers could be easily counted, and it was observed that there were
two persons with them, who were evidently white--a man and a woman. It
was with difficulty that the cheers, which rose to the lips of the men
on recognizing the Major, could be repressed.
“It will never do to attack them before they have crossed,” said Hugh
Robison. “If we do, the chances are that they run without firing a
shot, and if they do, good care will be taken that the prisoners are
not left behind.”
“That’s so, Hugh,” replied Hawkins. “Just wait till they hev crossed
over, and are mountin’ the bank--then pick your marks, and let drive.
Be careful you don’t hit the prisoners, though, and sallyin’ out on
the red varmints, kinder take ’em by surprise. We _may_ ride through
without trouble, and then agin we _mayn’t_. But you ain’t the boys to
be scared at the prospects of gettin’ a few hard knocks in a scrimmage,
and remember, you’re fightin’ to rescue yer best friends.”
This was the speech of the Captain to his army, and its effects was
as great as though he had harangued them for an hour; the men looked
at their weapons, and then to the leader of the Indian file, who had
ridden his horse into the river.
Several minutes passed of intense interest to those ambushed, until the
last of the horsemen reached the river bank, and began its ascent. It
had been conjectured that the party might stop, for a while, at least,
at this spot, but they gave no indications of any such purpose.
With a low-whispered “fire!” Ned Hawkins raised his rifle to his
shoulder--the six followed his motion--then came a single, loud,
clear-ringing crack, and three of the Indians were seen to drop from
their saddles, while two or three others swayed violently in their
seats.
The Indian who had been specially appointed to guard Adele had fallen
from his seat, struck dead by a chance shot, and the half-fainting
girl, though unconstrained, unconsciously clung tightly to the saddle,
totally disregarding the cry of Waving Plume to throw herself off.
One of the prisoners was rescued--the other was not. The trappers’ work
was but half done. Ten Indians lay dead on the plain, and a number
of those who escaped had received serious wounds, while none of the
whites had been killed. Bill Stevens had received a severe cut on the
shoulder, and a blow on the head, but neither wound was mortal; and,
though the rest had not all passed through the affray unscathed, yet
they were as fit for fighting as when they first entered into the
conflict.
The cords which bound the limbs of Major Robison were speedily cut, and
his first exclamation, upon being loosed, was:
“My daughter!”
“She is still a captive,” was the response of Hawkins; “but we will
rescue her to-night or die!”
Vain promises those, which are easier made than kept. When hot the
iron, then strike, nor wait a moment. Cool heads will sometimes
err, and rashness belongs to all. Thinking their object had been
accomplished, the Indians had been pursued by the trappers, and now
neither the men nor the horses were in a fit condition to follow, even
though but a few seconds had elapsed. Bill Stevens was almost fainting
from his wound, so that he was in no condition for a ride, while the
left arm of Biting Fox hung powerless by his side.
“Where is Waving Plume?” asked Howell, casting his eye over those who
stood around him.
This question was not to be easily answered, for that person was
nowhere to be seen.
“He must hev followed ’em,” replied some one; and this was all that
could be said of him.
Lost in the distance, a single man among a score, he had followed
the Blackfeet, determined to rescue the Major’s daughter or die.
Thinking of this put new iron into the strong arms of the trappers;
the determination that the consultors came to can be guessed. Pursuit,
stern--not ceasing till the aim was accomplished even though it led
them into their very villages.
Bill Stevens, much against his wishes, was left behind, and Major
Robison was to take his rifle, as he was unarmed; it would be of no use
to Stevens--it was a weapon to be depended upon--and one of the guns of
a fallen foe would serve all the purposes for which the wounded trapper
would wish to use it.
When, at the expiration of ten minutes, the little band rode away in
quest of Tom Rutter and his savage auxiliaries, it was with a cheer,
and a firm knitting of the muscles of the brow, which told of stern
resolution and untiring determination. Though the light was but
uncertain, yet, so broad and deep was the trail that it was easily to
be followed, and the seven kept on at the best rate of speed that could
be got out of their horses.
Seconds glided into minutes, minutes lengthened into hours, the moon
rode high up in the heavens, and the night trod hard upon the heels of
day, but still there came no sight of the fugitives.