CAYUSE FINDS OLD ENEMIES.
Little Cayuse’s trim figure sat astride the pinto Navi with all the
pride of a king, as he rode out of view of the sacred mountain that
afternoon.
Just now Little Cayuse was executing an important commission for
Pa-e-has-ka, and the boy’s native pride in positions of trust bade him
carry it out with celerity.
As he rode the Indian youth’s eyes constantly swept the plain, not from
fear or nervousness, but from force of habit. Indeed, with Navi under
him the boy felt that he had no cause to fear anything that stalked the
plain, for Navi was tireless and as fleet as the wind.
But Cayuse had not foreseen all the events of the afternoon. As he
gazed at a single white spot on the skyline he became convinced that it
was a prairie schooner. It seemed to be moving west across his line of
travel.
As it came nearer the young Indian could see that the wagon was drawn
by four mules which were, apparently, driven by a woman. An Indian on a
pony was riding in the wake of the wagon and seemed to be directing the
course of this ship of the plains.
The wagon halted where the travelers’ line intersected that of Little
Cayuse and waited for him to come up. Cayuse believed it to be a party
of white emigrants who were looking for the fort and had missed the
trail while attempting to travel at night.
The woman who was driving hailed the Piute as he drew near and asked:
“Where is Fort Phil Kearney?”
Cayuse pointed down the route he was pursuing.
“Will you show us the way?” the woman asked.
“Wuh,” answered the Piute, although he did not care to delay his own
trip by bothering with the outfit.
A man in the interior of the big white wagon, and whose eyes Cayuse
could see at an aperture in the canvas, said something in a low voice
to the woman at the lines. She looked hard at Cayuse.
“What is your name, boy?” the woman asked.
“All same Little Cayuse,” he answered.
“What I thought,” said a gruff voice within.
The Indian who accompanied the outfit had ridden around the wagon and
stopped near the Piute, when suddenly a double-barreled gun was poked
out by the side of the woman and a man’s head and shoulders appeared,
as he said:
“Hands up, Cayuse, and no monkey business. Take his arms and hitch his
pony to yours, Slow Foot; then tie Cayuse’s feet together under his
pony.”
Little Cayuse had not the slightest chance of escape against such
treachery. The people he had mistaken for harmless travelers had proven
banditti of a sort the Indian boy had never met. He could not imagine
what these white people should want of him, especially if they were
going to the fort, where he would be known and released on Wild Bill’s
word.
The voice of the man inside had a familiar sound, but the Piute could
not recall its owner. The voice of the woman was hoarse and strained,
probably from shouting to the mules.
When Little Cayuse had been securely bound, the outfit moved ahead in
the direction it had been pursuing--toward the mountains.
As they approached the mouth of a cañon a party of Indians rode out
and, wheeling, galloped toward them. The Indian called Slow Foot rode
on ahead, and after exchanging a few words with the leader of the party
of a dozen warriors, they dashed away and the schooner entered the
gorge.
For some distance the wagon bounced over the rocks and logs of the
cañon and then all were told to dismount. The wagon was pulled into
a thicket by the Indian, the man with whiskers, and the woman, who,
Cayuse discovered, wore a woman’s garment and shaker bonnet over a
man’s clothing and face.
The outfit passed as a frontiersman and his wife and household goods,
wherever they met white people, and when they met reds the Indian guide
explained to them that these were white refugees who were fleeing from
their own people to take up their abode with the red brothers.
Little Cayuse could now see how he had been entrapped, but he was not
yet able to understand how he came to be known and why he was wanted.
The party made its way up the bed of the cañon for probably three miles
and then came to the end of it. They were confronted by a solid wall,
probably one hundred feet high.
Near the end of the cañon was quite a growth of conifers, and behind
this hedge a green little valley of swale land. Here a herd of ponies
were tethered, and with these Navi and the mules were left.
Little Cayuse’s hands were tied behind him and one of the white men
held the end of the lariat, as the quartette toiled up the side of the
mountain. The one dressed as a woman had discarded that garb, after
there was little or no danger of meeting white people.
At the top of the wall the rocks seemed to fall away for a few rods to
a flat-bottomed timber land, under which the moss was soft and green.
The growth was protected from the high winds by the surrounding peaks.
The Indian Slow Foot led the way through the shadowy forest, where only
the sighing of the winds in the evergreens overhead and the twitter
of birds in the branches could be heard. In that soft, green moss not
the sound of a footfall was heard, and after they had passed the moss
sprang back into place, leaving no trail. It was damp, and dark, and
velvety; pleasing to the eyes and to the feet.
Cayuse, who had spent the most of his life on the plains, from Mexico
to Montana, had never seen anything like this. It was much as he had
pictured the happy hunting ground--cool, and soft, and free from alkali
dust, with plenty of dark pools for water and fish, fat antelope to be
seen among the trees, where the red men swung and smoked from moon to
moon.
Far across this beautiful land of trees they at last heard the shouts
of children and the barking of dogs. Ten minutes later they came upon
a group of tepees and found themselves in an Indian village, where fat
and lazy bucks lay smoking and enjoying the plunder taken from the
white settlers and supply trains, and stolen from the forts; all this
in addition to the bounty of the Great Father at Washington.
Preparation seemed to have been made for the two white men, and they
were led direct to a tepee, where they proceeded to make themselves at
home.
Little Cayuse was left bound in the care of a pair of braves, whose
only notice of the young Piute was to sneer:
“Pai-ute! Ugh!”
Little Cayuse disdained to make reply. His captors were the hated
Sioux. He could die without a murmur, if they tortured him, but he
would not talk to them.
In a cleared space where the trees and stumps had been grubbed away,
some sort of a dance was being held. Two circles had been formed around
a mystery pole. The cowskin drums boomed, and men of deeds composed the
inner circle in their war finery and with buffalo-horn dancing clubs.
These warriors shook their clubs at the outer circle and repeated their
deeds of daring. When this was done the drums boomed again and the
warriors of the inner circle marched up to the mystery pole and then
suddenly sprang back and danced about it, part going one way and part
the other.
The drums boomed once more and ceased and the dancing warriors began to
chant. After a time these men took seats and the speechmaking began. At
the end of each exploit related the drums were pounded furiously.
It was a sample day of the way these red men lived in luxury--according
to the red man’s notion of luxury--on the loot wrung from the daring
white men who were every day pushing the borders of civilization
farther toward the setting sun, and opening a vast domain of wealth and
happiness then infested by Indians and white pirates of the plains.
The sport becoming boisterous, the two white men came forth to witness
the ceremonies. They had shed much of their outer garments, including
the hair and beard which had been used for disguise, and Little Cayuse
instantly recognized his old friends of the Gallatin Valley--Price, the
Indian agent, and Bloody Ike, the ex-miner and blasting expert.
Cayuse now understood how he came to be known to them and why he
was wanted by them. The Piute fully realized the seriousness of his
situation and resolved to escape, even if by taking most desperate
risks.