BOUND TO THE STAKE.
The situation of old Tom Maxwell, was not one to be envied. Lying
helplessly bound, surrounded by a score of yelling, exultant red-skins,
who showered kicks and cuffs upon him with merciless celerity.
Taken in the very act of slaying one of their comrades, he could expect
but little mercy at their hands; indeed he felt some surprise that they
spared his life even for those few moments.
Suddenly a tall, powerful form strode through the corral, rudely
elbowing the braves aside, all resistance ceasing as they caught sight
of the one who handled them so unceremoniously. Evidently the new-comer
was one high in rank among them, judging from the deference with which
he was regarded.
Waving back the red-skins, he stood over the form of the captive scout,
gazing keenly at his upturned features. A quick and powerful change
passed over his face, and a hoarse cry broke from his lips, while one
hand nervously clutched the tomahawk that hung at his side.
“Ugh! Three Scalps!” he uttered in his native tongue; and even then
there seemed to be a tinge of respectful admiration in his voice.
“Yas, so they call me in your lingo, ’Rapahoe,” coolly returned Maxwell,
as he gazed fixedly at the face of the savage. “I s’pose you know how
you arn’t the name, don’t ye?”
“Yeh, me know. Big warrior, _you_. Kill heap Arapahoe. Won’t kill no
more, dough. Git kill _self_, bumbye. How like _dat_, eh?” added the
Indian, with a leer of ferocious joy upon his features, as he crouched
over the captive pale-face.
“Don’t know, chief, ontel a’ter I’ve tried it a time or two. Reckon I’d
like it fust rate, soon’s I git kinder used to it a bit. But you’re
jokin’, ain’t ye, now?”
“Jokin’—wha’ dat?”
“Foolin’—makin’ b’lieve—sorter throwin’ dust in a feller’s eyes, like,
ye know, so to speak. What fer do you want to kill me? I hain’t done
nothin’ much, onless it is killin’ a few dozen ’Rapahoes, fer which
you’d orter thank me, ’stead o’ holdin’ any grudge,” and the reckless
old scout chuckled grimly.
“You kill Arapahoe—Arapahoes kill _you_. Kill Cagoula here, kill oder
brave ober dere. You die fo’ dat.”
“What other? You ain’t goin’ to blame a feller fer what ain’t his fault,
be ye? Ef I tuck a notion to shoot out here at a bunch o’ grass, an’ one
o’ your durned copper-skins runs ag’inst the bullet, be I to blame? But
I didn’t do it—you cain’t prove ’at I killed any other skunk ’cept this
’ere one.”
“Kin too, me tell. Kill ’noder brave down dere—in water—stick one wid
knife. Den run ’way like de debble,” angrily added the chief.
“When—where was that?” asked Maxwell, a sudden hope springing up in his
breast at the last words of the Indian.
“S’pose you tek good hoss—ride like debble—mek hair all wet on hoss.
_Dat_ long, mebbe,” tersely replied the Arapahoe.
Maxwell’s form quivered with a new-born hope. He knew that the time
metaphorically stated by the chief, would be about that which had
transpired since the alarm had arose, so closely following the desperate
venture of Buenos Ayres. Could it be that he had been deceived—that the
young man had indeed eluded the vigilance of his enemies, and was still
at liberty?
For some moments Tom dared not trust himself to speak. He dreaded lest
the swarthy Hercules should suspect the truth from his tones.
“You mean the feller who tried to stop me down thar? In the water?” he
said, at a venture.
“Yeh.”
“You fellers didn’t see me, then, as I swum back up the river?”
“No. You do dat way?” eagerly asked the chief.
“In course. You hunted fer me, didn’t you? Ef I’d ’a’ stayed thar you’d
’a’ found me, wouldn’t ye?”
“Yeh, me see now. Injun he big fool dat time, but got you now. Keep you,
too. Tek scalp bumbye. How you like burn at stake, eh? Laugh plenty
loud, den, eh? T’ink so?” and the chief chuckled diabolically.
“Me—burn _me_? Git out—you’re crazy, Injun. _Cain’t_ do that. Won’t
burn; ’d putt the fire all out. I’m all frozen water, _I_ be. Tell you
what I’ll do. Bet ye my hat ’at I kin stan’ fire longer ’thout sizzlin’
’n _you_ kin. Thar now, what sez ye?”
The savage laughed a little at the sublime impudence of his captive, but
then turned away and entered into conversation with several of the more
prominent braves.
Maxwell had an object in view in thus chaffing with his captor. He felt
assured now that Buenos Ayres had indeed succeeded in passing the cordon
in safety, and that he was even then far away in search of help.
Thus, every moment of time gained was invaluable to his comrades. If he
could delay an attack until daylight, he believed that the train would
be saved, as the Indians would scarcely brave an assault in broad
daytime, knowing the great loss they must suffer in such a case.
Hoping to learn something definite regarding the red-skins’ plans, Tom
keenly strained his ears to catch the words of those who were collected
around the chief, at but a few yards from where stood the captive scout.
His partial knowledge of the dialect stood him in good stead here.
He heard his own name—or the _sobriquet_ given him for a deed of
peculiar daring some years before, Three Scalps—coupled together with
the emigrant train; and then another name met his ear. That of Dusky
Dick.
His suspicious, then, were only too true. This desperate attack was
indeed the work of the Traitor Guide. These savages were under his
orders; then where was he?
But soon other interests riveted his attention upon the savages, once
more. They were debating upon _him_—settling the mode and time of _his
death_.
Despite his hardihood and great bravery, the old guide shuddered as he
caught the words of the chief. To die—and by such a death—was horrible!
“His hands are red with the blood of the Arapahoe—he must _die_! But he
is a great brave—his name is Three Scalps. Do you know how he gained
that name? Listen! Four Arapahoe braves attacked him upon the prairie
and shot his horse: he was alone. They were good braves and skillful
warriors, but they were no match for him. He killed and took the scalps
of three—the other fled, with a bullet through his breast. He gained the
lodges of his people, and told his story; then he died. We called the
white warrior Three Scalps.
“He is a great brave, but he must die. He has fallen into our power at
last—but the death of a man awaits him. He shall die by fire—the wolves
must not pick his bones. Wapashaw has spoken!”
“The chief is wise,” slowly uttered one of the elder braves. “But does
he not forget? What will the white chief say? He bade us capture this
man and keep him so that he might slay him with his own hand.”
“Wapashaw is a chief. Who shall say he does wrong? Not a pale-face, with
blood like water. Is the White Snake greater than a chief of the
Arapahoes? No! He does not dare speak hot words to Wapashaw. He knows
that my arm is strong and my tomahawk sharp. Three Scalps must die—I
have said it!” sternly added the chief, as he turned away.
Where was Dusky Dick? Why did he not put in an appearance, now that one
of his bitterest enemies was helplessly a captive? This fact puzzled Tom
not a little. But then he thought of the imminent peril that threatened
himself.
“Durned consolin’, that is—I guess _not_!” muttered Tom, disgustedly.
“S’pose I’d orter feel proud, but I don’t—not a mite. B’lieve I’d ruther
they’d think I was a pesky coward, ef so be they’d think I wasn’t wuth
sizzlin’. Ugh! it makes the sweat come, jest to think on it! What’ll it
be _then_, though? Oh, Lord!”
He watched the movements of the savages with anxious eyes. Although as
brave as most men, there was something fearful in contemplating this
mode of being sent out of the world.
“Wonder ef it’ll hurt _much_. Bet it will; know it, ’most. Ef
’twouldn’t, I wouldn’t keer so much. Wish to ge-mineezers ’at I’d
stayed in the corral,” grumbled Tom, as he tugged desperately upon his
bonds.
But this effort was in vain. The hide-thongs had been applied by too
careful a hand, for him to slip them from his wrists, and the tough
cords only sunk deeper into the yielding flesh, with each succeeding
effort.
It was quite evident that whatever scruples a few of the elder braves
might have entertained as to the advisability of such a decided course,
were quickly overruled by the stern-willed chief, Wapashaw, and then the
necessary preparations for the feast were speedily under way. A score of
savages dashed away toward the timber belt, with drawn hatchets, and
then came the quick, heavy strokes, telling that wood was being
collected.
Maxwell noted their movements with naturally troubled feelings. He saw
his fate was sealed beyond a doubt, unless he could effect an escape.
But this seemed impossible. Alone, he was helpless as an infant. There
was nothing for it but to watch and wait.
In a short time the savages returned from the timber-belt, bearing huge
back-loads of dried wood, which, at a word from Wapashaw, they carried
over to the hill, near whose top it was heaped. There was a double
meaning in this selection of the spot for the sacrifice.
Of a necessity, there must be a number of braves left around the corral
to guard against another messenger venturing forth, and these would wish
to witness the sport. Did it take place upon the hillside, they could do
so as well as those within the corral.
The hill, too, was beyond reach of rifle-shot, and so the bright light
could not serve to guide an avenging bullet. For these reasons had the
hill been selected by the astute chief of the Arapahoes.
Then the form of the old guide was lifted from the ground by several
brawny warriors, and borne toward the rudely-improvised stake. Tom’s
heart sunk anew, for he hoped to be able to break away from his captors,
during the walk to the hill. But Wapashaw knew too well the nature of
the man he had to deal with, to run any unnecessary risks.
Maxwell uttered a bitter curse of rage as he realized this. But a savage
leer upon the countenance of Wapashaw revealed the delight his chagrin
gave the rascal, and Tom smothered his emotion, until he gave no outward
sign of feeling his position, though his teeth were firmly clenched and
his breath came hard and strong.
In a few minutes the hill was gained, and the old scout was placed with
his back against the firmly-planted stake. Not until a strong lariat was
twined around both his body and the post, were his feet freed from their
bonds, his hands still remaining tied.
“Ugh!” grunted Wapashaw, as he stood ordering the proceeding, addressing
Maxwell. “Three Scalps no ’feared _now_? Holler plenty loud, by-’m-by,
when fire burns. T’ink so?”
“Not much, chief. You’ll only git fooled ef you ’xpect _me_ to holler.
Fire cain’t burn me—_it_ cain’t. I’m proof ag’in’ lead an’ steel, too.
Didn’t know that afore, did ye? Why you mought stan’ thar an’ shoot your
rifle plum ag’in’ my face, an’ the bullit ’d jest bounce back ag’in,
like it hed hit a rock. Your hatchet ’ed break jest like a piece o’ ice,
ef you was to hit me, _hard_. It would _so_!” earnestly responded Tom.
“S’pose you try it an’ see, now, jest fer fun.”
Wapashaw gazed steadily at the old guide for a moment, but then a grim
smile swept athwart his countenance. He divined the motive that actuated
his captive, but was far from willing to gratify him.
“S’pose you t’ink Arapahoe chief he big fool, talk like dat? S’pose
shoot—hit ’um wid tom’hawk, den ’um go _dead, quick_. Den no git burn.
Three Scalps brave, plenty cunning, but so Wapashaw. No git fooled _dis_
time,” and the chief chuckled sardonically.
“Ah, _git_ out! Think ye’re _some_, don’t ye? Durned smart, you be—whar
the hide’s rubbed off. Fool nothin’—cain’t spile a rotten aigg, you
durned gumphead, you,” retorted Tom, with an angry glare in his eyes.
He had indeed strove to induce the chief to end all at one blow, by his
boasting, for he had racked his brain in vain to devise some other mode
of escaping the horrible death. Feeling assured that his time to die was
at hand, he wished it over at once.
Though Maxwell spoke boldly enough, there was a dull, heavy sinking at
his heart, as he noted the preparations for his torture. He knew that
mortal man could never endure that fearful trial, without giving
utterance to his agony.
He knew that death would come, but it would be lingering; before
oblivion, he must suffer ten thousand deaths. That is what he desired to
escape.
The dried fagots were piled around at a few yards’ distance from the
stake, so that death should not too quickly claim its victim. Time must
be given them to do ample honor to the great bravery and prowess that
Three Scalps had so frequently displayed, greatly to their harm.
Tom could look down upon the corral, though it was but faintly outlined
in the dim light, for the moon had sunk low down, and daybreak was close
at hand. He knew that his comrades must be cognizant of his capture,
whether they also knew of his threatened doom or no.
But he could expect no assistance from them. They would have enough to
do in guarding themselves, and the dear, helpless ones depending upon
their strong arms for safety.
Then Wapashaw took a torch that had been hastily kindled by one of the
warriors, and holding it to the dry kindlings, the pile of fagots was
soon in a blaze, shooting up from a dozen different points. And around
the funeral pyre danced the yelling and screeching red-skins, apparently
half frantic with demoniac joy.