The blood-red sun hung low in the western heavens, its usual brightness
partly obscured by the blue mist that hung over the mountain and
plain. The Black Hills lay dimly outlined against the murky sky. In
the vast expanse of mountain and plain, but a single _living_ object
could be seen. That object was a large bird poised aloft above a narrow
defile, or valley, in the Black Hills. For some time it seemed to hang
motionless on the air, then it descended down, down until it was lost
in the mountain shadows; then it darted up again, with a wild scream
from the valley, its keen eyes fixed on some object far below. And what
think you it was that Echo, the eagle, saw there?
It was a beautiful glade in the greenwood valley. A camp-fire burning
in the center of the glade. A number of Indians seated around the fire.
Several lodges standing in the background. An Indian encampment.
But two of the Indians claim our especial notice. The young chief,
Allacotah, and his beautiful wife, Silver Voice.
The young chief sat apart from his companions, apparently in deep
thought. Presently, the light figure of an Indian woman glided from one
of the lodges in the background and approached him. She was young, not
more than three and twenty. Her movements were graceful as the fawn’s;
her voice as sweet and clear as the chimes of a silver bell. She was
dressed in a short frock of some green material, beautifully ornamented
with Indian handiwork, while beaded moccasins and white-fringed
buck-skin leggings incased her feet and ankles.
Approaching and laying her hand upon Allacotah’s shoulder, she said, in
pure English:
“Allacotah, my husband, seems thoughtful.”
The young chief raised his eyes and gazed into those of his wife.
“That is true,” he replied; “but the voice of my beautiful wife cheers
me, though I was only thinking--thinking of our great chief, Black
Bear.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the beautiful Indian woman; “it had not occurred to
my mind before, that to-day Black Bear was to return from the great
wigwams of the pale-faces.”
“Yes, and may his heart not be filled with evil when he comes. Black
Bear is a bad man. He causes much trouble between the pale-faces and my
people. He has made many widows and orphans among the great Cheyenne
nation--waged war till Cheyenne blood flowed like water.”
* * * * *
Two miles from the Indian encampment on a high, bold bluff stood Rodger
Rainbolt, the ranger. One hand was resting upon his animal’s arched
neck, while with the other he held his spy-glass to his eyes as he
watched a tiny dark speck in the misty sky before him. That speck was
Echo, his eagle.
“Yes, there _are_ Indians there,” he muttered to himself, “and perhaps
they are the ones that I am in pursuit of. Echo, noble, sagacious bird,
has traced them out, and now he marks the spot by poising himself in
the air--now by descending--now rising again--now circling around and
around. Ah, noble bird! he circles away, away; he knows his mission is
done for the present, and now--”
He lowered his glass and taking the coiled horn from his saddle, placed
it to his lips and blew a shrill, prolonged blast, which, as it echoed
far back over the hills, reached the ear of the eagle, and immediately
it headed its flight toward its master. In a few minutes it was perched
upon his shoulder.
“Your work is well done, Echo,” said the ranger, caressing the bird,
“and I have only to await darkness to accomplish mine.”
* * * * *
The Cheyenne encampment was only a temporary one, the permanent village
of Black Bear being located several miles south-west within the
southern extremities of the Black Hills.
In anticipation of the return of Black Bear, or Blufe Brandon,
preparations were made for his reception; for a mounted messenger had
arrived in camp during the day and informed Allacotah and his braves
that Black Bear, with a beautiful captive, and accompanied by several
of his warriors, would arrive there some time during the evening.
As the time for the coming of the distinguished _white_ chief drew
near, and darkness gathered around, preparations were hastily made for
his reception.
Presently a wild yell announced the expected arrival.
The name Black Bear had a significant meaning as applied to the
Renegade, Blufe Brandon. Had one who had never seen him in his
disguise, beheld him when he entered the lodge of Allacotah, they would
have started up with sudden fear, for there was nothing natural in his
appearance.
The villain was completely disguised in the skin of a black bear, even
the head of the animal rested upon that of his own with its round,
glaring eyes, its open mouth, red tongue and white fangs in lifelike
presentation. As the nose of the animal projected over the head of the
renegade, the face of the latter was completely concealed by long,
straggling hairs hanging from the under jaw of the animal’s head, yet
the ruffian’s eyes shone through the hairy mask like those of a serpent
through the dark. His arms and legs were wrapped in the skin carefully
taken from the animal’s limbs with the long claws attached, and
dextrously fixed to his toes and fingers--thus perfecting his disguise
so completely that he looked like a bear walking erect upon his hind
feet.
In his arms the renegade carried Silvia Sanford, who a few minutes
before their arrival had fainted from sheer exhaustion, long fasting
and excessive heat.
A rug of skins and robes was laid near the fire, and the pale and
beautiful captive placed upon it. Black Bear then turned to Silver
Voice and requested her to look after the maiden’s wants, and assist
the medicine-man in restoring her to consciousness.
Silver Voice advanced, and bending over the captive, gazed into her
pretty, pale face. A low cry escaped her lips, and beckoning her
husband she pointed down, and said: “Does it not look--”
“Never mind what the girl looks like, but hasten to restore her. That
girl’s life is worth ten thousand dollars to me.”
It was Black Bear who spoke, his voice sounding hoarse and hollow
beneath his hairy mask. Allacotah was a chief of power and distinction,
but Black Bear was his superior--hence the latter’s authoritative,
indignant command.
Silver Voice, with the assistance of Allacotah, began the task of
restoring the captive to consciousness. Water was brought from a spring
hard by and the brow of the maiden bathed. A cordial made of some wild
herbs was administered, and by a vigorous chafing of the limbs and
temples, Silvia was brought back to life.
“Put her in _there_,” said Black Bear, pointing with his claw-clad
finger to Silver Voice’s lodge; “the presence of so many warriors might
excite her too much. She must have rest and food.”
Allacotah lifted her in his strong arms and carried her into the lodge
where Silver Voice had arranged a neat, comfortable couch of skins.
Laying her upon the couch, the chief went out, leaving the two women
alone.
Silvia opened her eyes and gazed around.
There was a fat-lamp, made in a rude stone-bowl, burning in the lodge,
and by it Silvia was enabled to see where she was. All around her wore
an air of neatness. The floor of the lodge was laid with a carpet
of buffalo-robes, and the walls of the cone-shaped structure were
hung with beautiful tapestry of buck-skin, highly and artistically
ornamented. Strands of wampum, stuffed birds of beautiful plumage,
curious figures carved from wood and stone were arranged around the
walls. The only object of civilization to be seen was a small, cracked
mirror.
When the captive saw the beautiful Indian woman tending over her with
tears in her eyes, her heart beat with gentle hope.
“Rest easy, dear girl,” said Silver Voice, kindly, “you are greatly
fatigued.”
“Where am I? and who are you with the tender voice and angelic face?”
asked Silvia, rising to a sitting posture and gazing around, her mind
still confused and bewildered.
“You are in the encampment of Allacotah, and I am Silver Voice,
Allacotah’s wife.”
“Where is Black Bear?”
“The inhuman wretch is out by the camp-fire,” the woman replied,
bitterly.
Silvia was surprised by her manner of speech. She saw that the Indian
woman entertained a feeling of intense dislike toward the chief.
“Then you do not respect the great chief,” said Silvia, “judging from
your remarks.”
“No, I hate him!” she fairly hissed, “the inhuman, merciless outcast of
his own race!”
“And do not his warriors like him?” asked Silvia.
“Yes; those whose hearts are vile as his,” Silver Voice answered,
“and, dear girl,” she continued, coming closer and speaking lower, “if
it’s in my power, and the power of Allacotah, you shall never, _never_
suffer captivity at his hands!”
Silvia’s face brightened; then it became clouded again as she said:
“But he told me he was going to sell me to a robber-captain--that the
robber had promised him a great reward for me, but how a robber-captain
here in the Black Hills knew me is quite a mystery.”
“Did he mention the robber-captain’s name?”
“Yes; I believe it was Dungarvon--Duval Dungarvon.”
“God have mercy!” exclaimed the woman, frantically. “Duval Dungarvon!
Duval Dungarvon! Oh, dear girl, better take your own life than fall
into the hands of that man. He is a fiend, a devil! It is not your
beauty, nor his love for you that makes him desirous of possessing you,
but it is to torture you, and grind, grind your father’s heart out for
revenge--bitter, _bitter_, BITTER revenge!” and the beautiful woman
fairly raved in her excitement.
Silvia was completely mystified by her strange words--her wild emotion.
“I do not understand you, Silver Voice,” she said.
Before the Indian woman could reply, a wild commotion among the savages
outside arrested her attention. She turned and went out, and Silvia
involuntarily arose and followed her.
The women were greatly surprised to see the savages, their faces
convulsed with horror--their eyes lifted upward with a terrified stare,
speechless and motionless. Following the direction indicated by their
startled gaze, the women became equally as terrified.
And why?
Down the valley from the north floated in the air high above the
tree-tops--far above the reach and power of man, an awful figure--the
figure of a human skeleton, its ghastly proportions revealed by the
flame and smoke emitted from the great sunken eyes, the distended
nostrils and wide, grinning mouth. Great white arms beat and buffeted
the air like the wings of a struggling vampire, while scream after
scream rent the air.
It was the Aerial Demon of the Mountain, the scourge of the Black
Hills--the terror of the Indian.
Silvia’s face became white with terror, and she was compelled to cling
to Silver Voice for support.
“Come into the lodge, dear girl,” said the chief’s wife, in a whisper,
“it is the Aerial Demon.”
They turned toward the door of the little cone-shaped structure. Just
then the clatter of iron-shod hoofs coming up the stony valley caught
their ears. They stopped.
The next instant a white man, mounted upon a mettlesome animal, dashed
from the gloom and stopped so quickly by the side of the terrified
women that his animal was thrown back upon its haunches.
It was Rodger Rainbolt, the ranger!
Before Black Bear and his savages could draw their attention from the
Aerial Demon--which in a moment, almost, had passed over the camp and
disappeared--the daring ranger leaned forward in his stirrups--placed
his arm about Silvia’s waist--lifted her from the ground as though she
had been an infant--whirled his animal southward and dashed away into
the gloom of the forest, pursued by Black Bear and his warriors.
As the ranger turned his animal he gave Silver Voice one quick
glance that seemed to pierce her to the heart. She threw up her
hands--clutched wildly at space--uttered a low, convulsive sob and sunk
unconscious into the arms of her husband, Allacotah.