The greatest excitement prevailed in the hunters’ camp over the sudden,
mysterious death of Wayland Sanford. Every thing within the young
doctor’s power was done in hopes of restoring him to life, but all to
no purpose. His limbs were cold and stiff, and his eyes, though wide
open, had that stony, glassy stare and his face the ghastly pallor of
the dead.
“It’s no use, boys; he’s gone,” said the young doctor; “his death by
apoplexy was caused by over-exertion and mental excitement.
“Poor uncle Wayland!” sighed Frank. “We have all been afraid of this
for years. He was a victim of the heart-disease and had a nervous and
excitable temperament to aggravate it, and alas! the abduction of his
daughter, the wearisome pursuit without food and rest, and finally,
that paper placed in his hand by the ranger, did the work.”
“But why should it?” asked young Lyman.
“That’s what I can not tell,” replied Frank. “Uncle Wayland has
been a man of the world--has spent much of his life away from home
among strangers, in California, in Pike’s Peak, in the army upon the
frontier, and to me his life has been a sealed book--a secret volume in
which this very Rainbolt may be an important character.”
The lifeless form was placed upon a blanket near the fire, the rigid
limbs straightened out, and the pale hands folded across his breast.
Ebony Jim burst into a paroxysm of sorrow, as he looked down upon the
pale face of the colonel.
“What is he to you, more than a stranger, Ebony? and why do you mourn
over him?” asked Willis.
“Oh, good Lor’! and wasn’t he de father of poor Florence Walraven?”
“And what about Florence? what do you know of her?”
“Why, wasn’t she de wife of Warren Walraven? and wasn’t poor Massa
Walraven de good master ob dis poor, black nigger?”
“And what about your master and the Devil’s Tarn of which he forbade
you speaking?”
“Oh, good Lor’! don’t ask dat,” the negro replied, glancing toward the
form of the colonel. “I fears him,” pointing to the dead.
“He is dead; you need not fear him now.”
“De spirit ain’t dead--no, no; I’ll tells you some time, not now.”
Ebony was obstinate, and as Frank could elicit no information from him
he turned away, greatly mystified.
By this time day was breaking, and before long the sun arose clear and
warm.
Flick O’Flynn went out in search of food for breakfast, and soon
returned with a quarter of deer-meat. A fire was struck and a great
quantity of the venison roasted.
Breakfast over, a sad duty was to be performed--the duty of interring
the colonel’s body.
An hour was spent in digging a shallow grave; the dirt being loosened
with hunting-knives and thrown out by the hands. The form of the
colonel was now wrapped in a blanket taken from the shoulders of one of
the dead Indians, his face covered with his hat, and then laid away in
the narrow sepulcher.
This sad duty performed, a council was held, and after due
consideration it was decided that Frank Armond and Walter Lyman, with
the Irishman, should pursue a southward direction through the Black
Hills, while Willis Armond and Ralph Rodman, accompanied by Ebony Jim,
should take a south-westerly course, and in case they did not overtake
the savages before they reached their village, they were all to meet
at a certain point near the stronghold known to the hunters, when they
would make other arrangements.
Scarcely an hour after their departure, a score of savages emerged
from the forest into the little glade, and, as their eyes fell upon
the lifeless forms of their friends lying around, they uttered a wild,
revengeful cry, and turning, they glided away into the woods like so
many blood-hounds, directly upon the trail of the white men.
The course of Flick O’Flynn and party lay through the heart of the
Black Hills, and over a rough, mountainous region, but they pushed
rapidly ahead, hoping to overtake the savages before reaching the
village.
The first day’s travel found them but fifteen miles from where they had
started in the morning. At the end of the second day’s journey, they
went into camp about two miles from the Medicine Bow river.
Almost wearied out, Walter and Frank stretched themselves upon the
ground to talk over their serious predicament, while the Irishman
struck a fire by which to prepare supper. But unfortunately, when the
fire was struck there was nothing to prepare for supper, so O’Flynn
proposed to go in search of game, leaving the young men at camp.
In a few moments after his departure, the young unskilled sportsmen
seemed to forget the caution enjoined upon them by the hunter, and
producing a pack of cards, concluded to indulge in the pleasant pastime
of “seven-up,” until the loquacious friend and guide returned. However,
the beginning of the game seemed to have been ominous of evil, for at
that moment, four dark figures glided from the deepening shadows of the
woods with a hideous yell, and, ere the young men had time to realize
“the run of the game,” they were stretched upon the ground and bound
hand and foot, prisoners in the hands of the Cheyennes.
Having secured their prisoners they set off toward the river,
compelling the whites, with their hands tied behind their backs, to
walk in advance.
In the mean time Flick was continuing his hunt.
He had pursued his course across the bottom to the river without
finding any game, and turning, he proceeded down the stream. He had
gone but a short distance in this direction when he spied a large
canoe with a solitary Indian in it, moored near the bank. The savage
evidently was waiting for some one, judging from the impatient look
he would now and then flash into the woods at his side. Simultaneous
with the discovery of the Indian, the Irishman heard a loud yell in the
direction of the camp, and well he knew its import. But, to be certain,
he turned and hastened back toward his friends, and as he neared the
camp he saw that his fears were confirmed. Frank and Walter were
prisoners and were being conducted through the forest toward the river.
The savages were going directly toward that point on the river where
he had seen the Indian in the canoe, and he knew full well that he was
one of the same party. So, turning, he ran with all possible speed back
to the river. He reached the bank several rods above where the Indian
still sat in the canoe, and, dropping upon his hands and knees, he
began crawling down toward the red-skin.
It was his object to put the savage out the way, and as he did not
wish to raise an alarm by firing his gun he resolved to trust in his
shillalah.
The Indian was seated with his face down the stream, and, as Flick
approached him, he discovered him to be a half-breed. He was dressed in
an old ragged suit of clothes, no doubt taken from some white victim.
An old straw hat surmounted his head, with what little there remained
of the brim lopped down over his eyes almost concealing his face.
Flick crawled on with the silence of a shadow, and had nearly reached
the canoe when his foot caught in a vine and he was thrown heavily to
the ground, making no little confusion. An involuntary oath escaped his
lips as he sprung up and prepared to flee, but to his surprise he saw
the Indian never moved.
“Success to mees’ plan, he’s dafe!” muttered the hunter, and he moved
on toward the red-skin.
He had almost succeeded in reaching the water’s edge when the savage
turned his head and saw him. In a moment the red-man snatched up his
tomahawk from the bottom of the canoe and hurled it at the head of the
Irishman. But the latter divined his intention, and falling flat upon
his face in the mud, the weapon passed harmlessly over. The savage did
not utter a single word nor sound, and it was quite evident now that he
was both _deaf_ and _dumb_.
“And sthill so much the better,” exclaimed the Irishman, and quicker
than thought he sprung up and into the canoe, and giving the half-breed
a tap on the head, settled him down perfectly unconscious.
In a minute the Irishman had stripped him of his ragged clothes and
donned them himself. As the Indian was the largest man, he (Flick)
had no trouble in putting the clothes on over his own, and with the
two suits on he appeared fully as large as the red-skin and equally as
woeful.
Flick then saw a little bark canoe resting under some willows that
fringed the bank. Drawing it out he placed the unconscious half-breed
therein and sent him adrift, knowing that ere he recovered his senses
he would be far enough away.
So far things had worked like a charm, and having smeared his face and
hands with a pigment of dark clay, and drawing the old hat-brim down
over his eyes, the disguise was completed, trusting to the gathering
twilight to hide all imperfections.
Flick now concealed his shillalah under his ragged coat, his rifle
under the seat of the capacious canoe, and then, procuring the savage’s
tomahawk, took his seat in the canoe.
By this time it was nearly dark, and, inasmuch as Flick was to play the
part of a deaf and dumb Indian, he felt perfectly safe in his daring
feat to rescue his friends, but, when he saw the savages emerge from
the woods and approach the canoe, his heart almost ceased to beat
through fear of being detected.