THE FLIGHT FROM THE WIGWAM.—INDIAN WATCH-DOGS.
WHEN Alice McElroy awoke to consciousness, and to find herself in the
canoe with the savage, two opposite states of mind and feeling were
induced. Overpowering terror and grief swallowed her up in a tempest of
horror, and yet her faculties were preternaturally busy in noting the
course she was being transported, so as to be able, if chance occurred,
to retrace her way.
Little did her pitiless captor imagine that the young girl who lay by
turns moaning and pleading in her sorrow, or speechless from fright,
observed objects they passed with a vividness that photographed their
image indelibly on her memory.
When, therefore, she took flight from the wigwam, her first endeavor
was to discover the real direction homeward.
The Indian had said that they had come a "big way" from the fort. But,
judging from the slow progress they had made, on the whole, she was
convinced that he had purposely exaggerated the distance. Perhaps it
was only a few miles to the river. Perchance her father might be there
searching for her.
But what dangers and difficulties might be between her and rescue she
dared not anticipate. A giant elm, lightning-blasted, she had seen in
coming, and there, a mile or so away, she could discern its ghostly
outline, stretching its bare branches heavenward. This welcome landmark
decided her course, and the assurance she felt that the decision was
correct gave her courage.
What did she not suffer in that dreadful journey! Struggling through
thorny bushes and interlacing shrubs, tearing hands, face, and neck
till blood trickled from the smarting wounds, bewildered in bushy
labyrinths where the confined air was so hot and suffocating as to
cause her to pant and gasp for breath, sinking knee-deep in mud and
ooze of slimy marshes, startled by sounds of she knew not what wild
creatures. But the fearful apprehension that her captor, discovering
her absence from the wigwam, would pursue and overtake her, stimulated
her lagging energies.
About noon, she came to the margin of a small lake. In the tops of the
tall, overhanging trees were large birds, of black plumage and odd
shape, with great, coarse, red throats. The water beneath was black,
and thickly covered with broad, floating leaves. On the shores grew
poisonous plants with brilliant blossoms and sickening scents. Here,
weary and trembling, she sat down, and drawing from her dress-pocket
the dried venison, ate a little. Then descending to the border of the
pond, and scooping up some water in her hands, she eagerly drank.
Now, recollecting that she did not see this lake while carried off by
the Indian, the conviction that she had wandered from the path startled
her. Frantic at the thought, on she went, looking sharply to descry
some waymark that would set her right again. Walking and resting in
turn, afternoon wore off, and evening twilight fell.
The sun went down, and darkness brooded on the forest. Urging her weary
limbs along in the awful gloom, slipping, stumbling, falling over
moss-grown tree-trunks, scratched and clasped by remorseless branches,
all at once she heard the howling of wolves, as if hundreds of them
were assembled in grim concert. Then, in the direction of the howling,
she saw a lurid light and dusky figures moving about.
She was too well acquainted with frontier characteristics not to
recognize in the scenes before her an Indian encampment; for she
had heard her father tell that the coyotes, or prairie wolves, will
surround a camp at nightfall, and at nine or ten o'clock commence their
serenade chorus, and that the Indians will not kill the discordant
voiced animal, regarding him as a watch-dog. For let any one approach
the camp, and the wolf-music instantly ceases, and the Indians know
that somebody is about. Then they keep away from their fires, and watch
for the intruder.
When the knowledge of her proximity to an Indian encampment burst upon
her, Alice sank to the ground, overcome with conflicting emotions.
If it was the same encampment that she passed with the Indian, then
she had returned unconsciously on her own steps, and must still be
near her captor's hut, and when morning dawned, he would certainly
retake her. The conclusion was appalling. How ought she to act under
the circumstances? How would it do to enter the encampment and claim
protection? Might not some in the barbarous community, for the hope of
generous reward, extend it, and restore her to her father?
A faint hope sprang up in her heart. Softly gaining the summit of the
mound she was on, she gazed earnestly at the encampment. Those swarthy
forms, how hideous and terrifying! Turning, she fled into the covert
of the woods like a bird chased by the cruel hunter, and toiled with
the energy of a mortal fear to put as much space as was in her power
between herself and those "habitations of cruelty."
Sitting down at last, her strength all spent, she leaned for rest
against a craggy oak.
"I must not sit here but a moment," she said to herself.
But a resistless drowsiness benumbing her sensibilities, with an
ineffectual attempt to shake off the spell, she dropped into a deep
sleep.
A sharp report aroused her. Starting to her feet, she saw with wonder
that the sun was up: she had slept till morning. And a second wonder—a
few rods in advance was the river. With a cry of joy at the familiar
sight,—to see which she had dared and endured so much,—she sprang
forward, purposing to descend the bank, and if the stream at that point
was not too deep, wade over.
A warning buzz in her pathway brought her to a stand-still, for a few
paces ahead, coiled ready to strike, was a large rattlesnake. She
retreated backwards, the reptile darting out his forked, fiery tongue
at her till assured of his own safety, then slowly uncoiled itself and
glided away.
Making a circuit, she began once more to go down the bank. A mat of
dried rank sedges and osiers was before her. Stepping upon it, a score
of snakes beneath the treacherous covering rattled and hissed, and with
a shiver and a scream, she fled back again.
A gun was now discharged in the distance across the river. Then she
dimly discerned a soldier's uniform. Her heart gave a bound—it was her
father's men looking for her. She was about to call to them, when a
great flat hand was placed sternly and silently over her mouth.
It was the Indian. Lightly throwing her over his shoulder, he bore her
rapidly away. In vain, she struggled and tried to cry out. The iron
grip relaxed not, and in sight of final escape, she was a captive once
more.
Not long had the savage, with his victim, gone, when the fort soldiers
appeared under the trees opposite.
"I am sure, captain, that it was a girl's voice. It was as genuine a
scream as I ever heard," said one of the men.
"I heard it," added another, "and something like a dress went
fluttering over the bank yonder!"
Instantly, the eager soldiery forded the stream, and penetrated every
part of the adjacent wood. But no trace of human existence was found,
save a bit of dried venison under the tree where Alice had reposed.
Through the concealing bushes, the adventurous red-man carried the girl
with the ease and swiftness of a panther, to a point low down on the
stream. Here he pushed from its hiding-place a canoe, and tying his
captive's mouth with tight folds of dirty cloth, he laid her in the
boat, and paddled noiselessly along.
Long and diligent was the search for the lost maiden. Prairie, forest,
and river were scoured, and large rewards offered for her recovery, but
without avail. Weary weeks, melancholy months, rolled round, bringing
no news of fairy Alice.