WAVING PLUME AT LIBERTY.
The night wore on. The sighing winds crept slowly around the wigwam, or
sorrowfully wailed up the streets of the Blackfoot village. The dim,
ghostly circle around the moon deepened into blackness; dim clouds grew
in size, looming forebodingly, and a chill, damp feeling filled the
air. Without the wigwam, which served as a prison for Major Robison and
his friends, three dusky warrior sentinels stalked, their arms well
secured under the folds of their close wrapped blankets. Silence came,
like cotton-down, upon the surrounding village, and all was quiet.
From within came no sound indicative of aught of life; but by the light
of the low-burned, smouldering brand, three persons held a whispered
conversation. It was Waving Plume who first spoke out, and asked his
companions to make, at least, one more desperate attempt to escape.
It was Waving Plume who first spoke of what all three had before been
thinking.
“Time hurries on, Major, and the hour of midnight must be well past.
To remain here is certain death, and that, too, without having the
consolation of knowing that thereby we are in the least benefitting
your daughter. Darkness, without, appears to be thick, and guards
slacking in their vigilance--what say you, then, to a desperate try for
life and liberty?”
“No need to ask me that question, Archer. I have that to nerve me for
the struggle which may come; and much of all one loves, hangs trembling
in the balance. Here are we, with unbound hands, our lives, and the
lives of our friends at stake--the chance of success, to one of us, at
least, tolerable--why then should we delay. Let us hasten to leave.”
The step of the sentinels without had ceased. A low murmur of
conversation came in from the corner opposite to the door. The men
without had seen Jake Parsons and Archer most thoroughly bound, and
they had not the slightest suspicion but what Major Robison was in the
same predicament. A thought of bad faith from Tom Rutter never crossed
their minds. With such subjects as might beguile their savage minds,
they kept up their conversation, leaving the tight binding withes which
had entwined the wrists of their captives, and the chance of fortune to
take care of the prisoners. Thus, in silence, and with lips somewhat
quivering, and hearts almost silenced in their beating, the three stole
out, all unarmed, save the heavy hunting-knife which Waving Plume
carried in his bosom.
Robison and Parsons crept along side by side; but Charles Archer
followed some half dozen paces in the rear, covering the retreat, and
occupying, as he thought, the post of danger.
A faint sound of pattering feet, following close behind, saluted the
ear of Waving Plume, so that, with knife drawn, and in a crouching
position, he awaited the nearer approach of the object. It proved to
be something which is but rarely met with--a really courageous Indian
dog. With only a single bark, with only a low, deep growl, he sprang
straight at the neck of Archer.
He, however, on his guard, threw up his left arm to ward off the
attack, at the same time striking a powerful blow at the side of the
animal. It proved a fatal one, for, with a sound, the mere repetition
of his growl, he fell lifeless to the ground; while our hero,
withdrawing his steel, turned to follow in the track of his still
advancing friends. They, not perceiving that he had stopped, silently
continued their journey, leaving their rear guard to stand with his
reeking knife firmly clasped in his hand, perplexedly listening in the
endeavour to guess the direction taken by his companions.
In five minutes Archer had extricated himself from the village, had
traversed a distance of a hundred yards due west, and had then, with
a Westerner’s instincts, turned and struck a course almost due south.
To the south were friends: to the south help, freedom. But, if to
the south lay safety, so, to the south lay danger. Outlying pickets
returning bands of warriors, a tangled path--these, and darkness were
before him. But death howled behind him, and forward, forward through
the night, he pressed.
Hastening on, his teeth firm set, his eyes straining to pierce the
darkness, his hand tightly clenching his hunting-knife, there came
suddenly to his ears the sound of a rapidly approaching horseman. Not
far distant was he, either, and though the danger of halting was almost
commensurate with that of proceeding, still he thought it best to halt,
and, if possible, escape the notice of the coming foe. For not one
moment could he suppose that any but a foe might ride so recklessly in
such close proximity to the Indian town.
Halting, then, he threw himself at full length upon the ground, hoping
that good fortune and the darkness of the night might once again
befriend him. At three yards distance he was invisible; it would be a
keen-scented man, indeed, who might detect his presence.
The steed came nearer, the soft ground and tangled prairie grass,
deadening the sounds of his approach.
Onward, and still onward the red-man swept.
Suddenly, from the very ground at his feet, arose a form, shadowy and
spectral, reaching one arm toward the head of his steed, the other
brandished back. Startled, his self-possession most sternly attacked,
almost stunned by this ghostly apparition, his hand bore hard on the
leathern thong of his bridle, and a twitch of the wrist, tried to turn
the horse to one side. But, though the nerves of the rider were steel,
not so with the animal he bestrode; and, though coming to a halt so
suddenly as to be thrown back upon its haunches, farther than that
he refused to do. So, as the hand of the warrior felt for the ready
tomahawk, the phantom form gave a bound forward, the next moment, with
a sweeping, hissing sound, the knife of Archer went hilt-home to the
heart of the red-man.
Possessed, then, of steed and fire-arm, with foes behind and friends
before, careless--reckless--of pursuers and pickets, straightforward
through the gloom, dashed the escaped prisoner.
Somewhat tired was the steed, but the clouds rifted, the wailing winds
sighed more softly, the moon again beamed out bright; and as hours
sped on, and were thrown backward by the flying hoofs, the bright
auroras tinged the eastern clouds, and John Howell, from his look-out
by the foot of a thickly wooded hill, keeping sharp guard while his
companions slept, caught glimpse of a strange figure, mounted on a
foam flecked and weary steed, bearing down full and hard upon him. So,
too, with Antonio, the half-breed, who, with the Crows following in
his footsteps, had pushed on, and had, on the previous day, overtaken
the trappers. He and Howell, together watching, descried the unknown
figure, and, at first were somewhat ruffled in their minds, but at
length, with a joyous clap of the hand upon his thigh, Howell shouted:
“Waving Plume, by mighty!”