THE RED FURY
It was an avenging red fury that swept down upon them.
Huddled in his blankets, Dick beheld a sight that caused him to shrink
back in mute terror. The camp was alive with invaders. Hideous shouts
rose on all sides. Rifles crashed. Through the gray twilight, appearing
like scurrying phantoms from another world, the attacking party had
hurled itself upon the outlaws’ encampment.
Brennan and his four companions had been among the first to attempt
flight. In desperation, reeling drunkenly as they hurried along, they
struck out in the direction of the cabin three hundred yards away. As
they passed opposite the three boys, four grisly forms leaped out from
the rocks just ahead and darted towards them. Dick could hear the
courageous Brennan squeaking like a rat before he turned again to make
off. Without thought of the possible consequences, they had swung about
and raced wildly back, screaming at the top of their lungs.
The din and commotion increased. Over at the mine a furious fusillade of
rifle shots attested to the fact that Henderson and the other outlaws,
who occupied the cabin, were resisting stubbornly every effort on the
part of the Indians to storm the stronghold. The shouting had become
deafening. Pine torches in the hands of scores of the besiegers began
fluttering across the slope, thence up to the cabin. In an incredibly
short space of time a dense cloud of smoke enveloped the low structure.
Wide tongues of flame leaped up, mounting quickly to every part of the
building.
Since the beginning of the attack, the three boys had made no effort to
escape. Sandy, weak with terror, clung to Dick while Dick himself,
nearly as badly frightened, sat shivering close to Toma. On several
occasions Indians had passed within a few feet of them, but had gone on.
It occurred to Dick that the reason their presence had not yet been
discovered was because they had pitched their blankets at the very foot
of the cliff, where the shadows were deepest. This thought gave birth to
an inspiration. A ray of hope flashed into Dick’s mind. Would it not be
possible, keeping within the dark shadow of the cliff, to creep along to
the far side of the encampment undetected, thence make their way up
through the sheltering rocks to the top of the plateau? It was perhaps a
forlorn hope, yet it offered possibilities.
In a low whisper, Dick told of his plan. A moment later the three boys
crept stealthily forth with wildly beating hearts. Inch by inch, they
wormed their way over the uneven ground. It required a full half hour of
ceaseless, uninterrupted crawling to negotiate the eastern side of the
wide, natural opening among the rocks. Scarcely daring to breathe, they
commenced the ascent. It was darker now, but the glaring reflection from
the burning cabin fell across their path directly above.
“They’ll see us up there,” Sandy panted. “We can’t make it.”
“Our only chance,” returned Dick. “Come on!”
They reached the top of the plateau in a panic of fear. Had they been
seen? Dick put one shaking hand on Sandy’s shoulder and pointed to a low
barrier of rocks.
“Make for it!” he quavered, gulping at the lump in his throat.
They broke into a run. Thirty, forty, fifty yards—they were tearing
along now at top speed, hurdling the low obstructions, darting around
the higher slabs of sandstone that stood in their road. Madly they raced
for another twenty yards—and stopped!
They had run straight into the arms of two powerful Indians. It had been
impossible to see them coming. Dick checked himself so suddenly that he
nearly fell. Sandy emitted a startled, agonized shriek, while Toma,
unable to stop, plunged ahead, colliding with the foremost of their
adversaries and sent him reeling back with crushing force against a
rock.
Dick and the second Indian came to grips a moment later. A
murderous-looking knife flashed down in a short half-circle, but Sandy
seized the hand that held it and clung grimly there until Dick had
contrived to tear himself away from the smothering embrace. He was
gasping for breath as he drew back. Encumbered with Sandy, the Indian
shook himself like a huge mastiff, but Dick’s clinched fist drove
forward with telling effect. Seeing their temporary advantage, the boys
were away again in a rush, Toma—somewhat dazed by the collision—bringing
up the rear.
As they raced farther and farther away from the encampment, hope mounted
in their breasts.
“We’ll get away yet,” Dick puffed. “We’ll make it, Sandy. Don’t lose
heart.”
They crossed a narrow swale, still running at top speed, and, continuing
eastward, came at length to a small meadow which extended to one side of
the plateau. The thickening dusk had become darkness. Far behind them
they could hear only faintly the noise of the attack. The red glow of
the burning cabin had almost subsided. The three boys tumbled in the
grass and lay still. Their breath came in choking gasps. Perspiration
oozed out from every pore in their bodies.
Pausing only for a short rest, they hurried on again, turning more to
the northward. Once or twice Dick or Sandy stopped to listen, fearful
lest the two Indians they had encountered might be following them.
“I can’t believe we’ve managed to get away so easily,” Dick declared.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” replied Sandy. “They’ll be sure to follow
us.”
They struggled on. It was difficult now to pick their way without
stumbling into ruts and slipping over rocks. They had left the meadow
behind. On every hand, boulders, stones, tall jagged cliffs surrounded
them. Their brisk walk had changed to a mere snail’s pace.
“We no get on very fast,” complained Toma at the end of another half
hour. “I think mebbe we made mistake come this way. Take all night to go
one, two miles.”
“Let’s turn more to the left,” suggested Dick. “That may lead us out of
here.”
Toma’s keen sense of hearing was responsible for their next full stop a
few minutes later. Groping out with his two arms he caught Dick by the
sleeve and Sandy by the back of his coat. Frantically, he pulled them
back.
“I think I hear someone.” His whispered warning was scarcely audible.
“Don’t move unless want to die. Somebody come.”
A small stone rattled down the sharp incline immediately ahead of them.
A guttural voice broke across the stillness.
“Indians!” breathed Sandy. “Quick!”
With alacrity, the three quaking refugees pivoted about. For a few paces
they hurried forward. Another stone rattled down almost at their feet.
In dismay, they came to a sudden halt.
“Trapped!” gurgled Dick.
His legs were growing limp under him. Fearfully, his eyes endeavored to
pierce the surrounding darkness. Was it illusion, or did he actually see
something?
Vague shapes took human form. Dick had barely time to reach out and draw
his two companions closer to him, to squeeze Sandy’s hand, and brace
himself for the final shock—when the blow fell. One long, piercing,
fiendish scream cut the silence. A wild scramble, hideous faces leering
out of the dark, the sensation of being pummelled, struck, thrown back;
the faint memory of a strangled sob—then complete oblivion!
When he woke to consciousness, Dick was being bounced and jerked about
in a most unusual and disconcerting way. He tried to raise his arms
above his head, but the effort proved futile. His wrists were bound.
Across his chest and around his legs he could feel the pressure of
tightly drawn rope. By turning his head slightly and squinting down
along the curved surface of the object under him—to which he had been
tied—he discovered the cause of his trouble.
He was strapped to a horse. The horse was slipping and sliding over
treacherous underfooting, and was one in a long string of similar pack
animals. The pack-train was advancing through the uncertain light of
early morning, moving very slowly to the accompaniment of hoarse,
guttural shouts.
In a sudden flash, the memory of the events of the preceding night came
back. Up to a certain point he retained a vivid, clear-cut impression of
everything that had passed—the Indian attack at Henderson’s encampment,
the flight across the plateau and finally the harrowing experience among
the rocks. What had happened afterwards he did not know. Had Sandy and
Toma been killed? Why had the Indians taken him prisoner? Where were
they going now, and what did they purpose to do with him, when they got
there?
But whatever fate lay in store for him—it mattered little. Just then
Dick was not particularly concerned with worry over himself. His mental
images had taken a gruesome and awful shape. Before his eyes he could
see the bruised and lifeless bodies of his two chums—Sandy and Toma. A
burning sob escaped him. He turned his head again, gazing up in the
gray, shadowy vault of the sky.
With the coming of the morning light Dick saw that the country around no
longer possessed the aspect of grim, forbidding desolation. The plateau
had been left far behind. They were now winding their way over a
beautiful rolling woodland, whose varied scenic effects were pleasing to
the eye. At one place the ponies forded a shallow creek and a little
farther on skirted the shore of a lovely lake. This lake was narrow and
long, sparkling like an emerald in the slanting rays of the morning sun.
And then Dick perceived, with a sigh of relief, the Indian village.
Scores of brown tepees nestled among the trees on the north side of the
lake. Blue pinions of smoke floated lazily through the still air above
the pines.
Dick could scarcely believe that the howling demons of the night before
could in any way be associated with this pastoral scene. A drowsy peace
lay over the village. Men and women sauntered here and there. Children
played in the white belt of sand that sloped gently away toward the
lake.
The pack-train turned quickly to the right and threaded its way along a
narrow path through the trees and a few minutes later drew up in a
cleared space at one end of the village. Their approach had been
heralded by an ear-splitting yowling of dogs and the noisy clamor of a
small regiment of half-naked children. During the general excitement
following their arrival, Dick began to believe that his own existence
had been entirely overlooked. Did they intend to leave him strapped to
the pony all day? Was it some new brand of torture devised for his
particular case?
He was still brooding, when three particularly ferocious-looking
warriors drew away from the noisy hubbub and approached. Without a
moment’s hesitation, they proceeded to untie the moose-hide thongs and
drag him down from his perch. In an incredibly short time, he was lying
in the grass at their feet, the cynosure of hundreds of curious eyes.
Dick sat up and rubbed his wrists and ankles. He wriggled his toes. He
made an unsuccessful effort to rise. His legs were as numb and useless
as those of a paralytic.
Two of the Indians who had released him helped him to his feet and, thus
supported, he was taken through the gaping crowd to a tepee nearby. Here
he was given food and water, one of the Indians remaining behind to
guard him.
“I suppose they’ll keep me confined here for the rest of the day,”
thought Dick. “They’re probably holding a council of war right now to
decide what’s to be done with me.”
As the hours passed, Dick’s guard sat stoically watching him. There was
no expression in the calm, deeply-lined face. Except for an occasional
flutter of his eye-lids, one might have thought that the silent,
tranquil figure had been carved out of stone.
When the numbness had left his legs, Dick rose to his feet, and, as the
inactivity was unendurable, he began pacing back and forth across the
narrow, confining space. The exercise succeeded in restoring his
sluggish circulation. He felt so much better that he wished he might be
permitted to go out and walk along the shore of the lake. The flap of
the tepee had been pulled back, revealing an inviting prospect of cool
blue water and green trees.
From time to time, visitors came to glance in at the prisoner.
Occasionally these were women and children, but more often dark-visaged
warriors, clad in moose-hide jackets and trousers that had been
beautifully embroidered in some kind of brightly-dyed fiber thread. Dick
became greatly absorbed in noting the various designs. There were totem
poles, bears, caribou, and animals of all descriptions. One Indian had a
picture of the sun emblazoned across his wide chest.
He was occupied on one occasion in admiring a particularly interesting
sample of this native handiwork when he was startled by an explosive
grunt. When he looked up quickly, it was to meet the gaze of a young
Indian, whom he had seen somewhere before. He was probably one of the
men who had conducted the pack-train, Dick thought. Then, suddenly, he
remembered. An involuntary cry of recognition escaped from his lips. It
was the son of the chief—the victim of Baptiste’s brutal attack.
Dick’s heart was beating joyfully as he sprang forward to grasp the
outstretched hand.