IN THE INDIAN VILLAGE.
What the outlaw called safety was for himself and the Indians alone,
and far from it for poor Lucille.
He believed that the three fords were guarded still, that he might
run upon a scouting party from the soldiers’ camps at any moment,
and he did not feel at ease until he had crossed the river with his
captive.
It was bold in him to venture so near the upper ford, believing a
party of soldiers to be there, yet he knew that the wild nature of
the country through which the river flowed above would keep him from
crossing for many a long mile, and, for Lucille’s sake alone, to his
credit be it said, he wished to cross by the unknown ford, though,
strictly speaking, it was not a ford, but a place where a horse or
man might get over by swimming.
Lucille had escaped getting wet in crossing, and, as before, was
given a secluded camping place to herself.
The chief made it most comfortable, as there was no hurry now, by
cutting pine boughs and building a wikiup and placing the pine straw
as a couch, with the cushions from the coach upon it.
A little fire was built near, just to make it more homelike, the
chief said, and an extra supper was prepared for all.
Night fell, and soon after supper the tired girl, for she was tired,
sank to sleep in a few minutes.
She awoke once in the night, to hear an owl hooting in the trees not
far away, and a coyote yelping a short distance from camp.
But she banished all thought with an effort of her will, and went to
sleep again, awakening only when the sun had risen.
“I hope you rested well last night, Miss Fallon?”
“I enjoyed a good night’s rest, thank you.”
“A ride of a little over thirty miles, and you will be in your new
home to-night.”
“Home! Do not desecrate the name, for it will be a prison, not a home
to me,” she said bitterly.
“Breakfast is ready for you.”
She ate it, her spirits returned, and once more she mounted for the
ride.
Toward noon they began to climb the range she had seen from far
across the river, and soon after the chief halted for dinner.
Then up the steep trail they climbed again, Lucille glancing back
from time to time to behold the scenery, and, while the sun was yet
two hours above the horizon, they came to a pass in the mountains,
where she suddenly beheld an Indian sentinel standing in the trail
ahead of them.
“Where is the chief?” asked the outlaw in the Indian tongue, and
which was as Hebrew to Lucille.
The Indian sentinel pointed, and soon after there came toward them
a horseman that at once riveted Lucille’s gaze. He was the Indian
chief, Death Face, and he had just come down from the village to the
pass, which his band of braves were guarding.
The youthful warrior was resplendent in a new costume, from boots to
war bonnet, for he had on a pair of handsome cavalry boots. Sitting
his horse with conscious power, armed with the white man’s weapons of
revolvers and bowie knife, his face hideously painted, and mounted
upon an animal that was bedecked in barbaric splendor, Death Face
struck Lucille as being the most remarkable being she had ever gazed
upon.
The chief fairly started as his eyes fell upon her, and the outlaw,
after greeting him, said:
“Death Face, I have been on a raid into the white man’s territory,
and this lady is my captive, whom I shall sell back to her father for
a large price.”
To the utter amazement of Lucille, the young chief replied, in
perfect English:
“I do not believe in the theory of my people, chief, of making war
upon women and children, and I am surprised that you, as a white man,
should do so; but that is your affair, not mine. Only treat her well.”
“That she will tell you I have done. I wish to place her in the
renegade’s cabin in your camp.”
“You can do so.”
The outlaw and his captive were then riding on, when he halted and
said:
“Chief Death Face, those braves of yours whom I took with me I shall
arm with repeating rifles and revolvers. I also have a pair of fine
revolvers, a knife and a rifle for you, with a very handsome buckskin
suit sent by an officer at the fort to a friend in the East, with
slouch hat and all.
“They will fit you, I am sure, and I wish you to accept them, as well
as several fine Mexican serapes.”
“Thank you, Captain Eagle, I will take them.”
“You have done well, I see, on your raid?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Come to my quarters in the village to-night.”
“I will.”
“But have you any word of the soldiers?”
“They are still on the other side, though I did not see them.”
“I supposed they had gone, for we had seen no camp-fire smoke for
three days.”
“It may be a trick, so still be cautious and guard the fords,
especially now that I have a captive here for whose rescue Colonel
Carr would doubtless send his whole force.”
With this the chief rode on, muttering to himself:
“I must win that fellow with presents, for he will be the next chief
after Iron Eyes, and he has as much influence now. Probably he has
been educated in some school, for he speaks English like a paleface,
and acts like one, too. There is some secret about him that I cannot
fathom.”
He had not ridden far before Lucille came up alongside of him. She
saw now about her in a valley like cañon a camp of Indians.
They were in full war paint, and gazed savagely at her as she rode
by, yet were gloating in her capture.
Once through the cañon, and the trail led down into a beautiful
valley in which was the village of old Iron Eyes.
Lucille uttered a cry as the view burst upon her, for, through the
valley ran a mountain stream, upon both sides of which, for several
miles, were the tepees of the Indians, the scattered village of the
red men.
The valley was dotted with thousands of ponies, and among the tepees
were visible many women and children.
Warriors were riding about, youths were mounted upon bareback ponies,
others were playing games, children were bathing in the stream, and
squaws were busy getting the evening meal.
At the base of the hills on either side was heavy timber, and above
the village towered the mountain ranges.
“What a view for an artist!” cried Lucille.
“Yes, it must strike you strangely, Miss Fallon.”
“It does; but you did not answer my question?”
“What was that?”
“I asked you, after we came through the camp of braves, who that
young chief was?”
“He is called Death Face, and is the next chief in power to old Iron
Eyes.”
“He is very young?”
“Not over twenty-two, I should say.”
“And yet holds such power?”
“He is a born fighter, a plotter, a soldier, and he has won his way
up, young as he is.”
“How is it that he speaks English so well?”
“Only a few minutes ago he told me that he was taught by a renegade
white man and his family.”
“And also learned from him, I suppose, not to war against women and
children. He could set you a good example, chief.”
“I follow my own inclinations, Miss Fallon.”
“So I have discovered. But in what part of this village am I to find
refuge?”
“Up at the head of the valley, in the cabin I spoke of.”
“There must be a couple of thousand Indians here, at least.”
“Double that number and more, for the village is five miles long,
has some twelve hundred tepees, and can put out a force to defend it
of two thousand warriors. Then there are several other contingent
villages in these mountains that claim Iron Eyes as chief. It would
be a sad day for any force of soldiers to invade these mountains,
Miss Fallon, unless they came several thousand strong.”
“That was just what I was thinking,” answered Lucille.
As they rode into the village the squaws and children rushed toward
them to see the newcomer.
But a few words from the outlaw prevented any rudeness, for they held
no sympathy for the fair-faced captive.
Lucille paled at sight of them, but remained calm, and rode on by
the side of the outlaw, whom she could not but now regard as her
protector.
Up through the village they rode, the girl’s fears gradually giving
place to interest, until at the upper end of the valley, under the
shelter of a heavily-wooded ridge, the mountaintop, there were
visible a number of tepees apart from the others.
“There is your camp, Miss Fallon. It is a deserted village--the
supply tepees, as I told you. Yonder you see your cabin, apart from
them, and there you will be safe. I shall have a half-breed squaw,
who once lived at the fort as an officer’s servant, remain there with
you and do your cooking.”
“And be my guard also?”
“In a measure, yes, for she will keep the Indians away from you, and
you do not need any other guard here, as you could not escape over
yonder ridge, unless you have wings.
“The squaw speaks English and has cooked for me when I have been
here, for my own tepee is in the village. The cabin is furnished, as
I told you, after a rude fashion, and you have your own satchel with
clothing, so you will not be uncomfortable.”
As they passed a large tepee the outlaw called out to an Indian woman
who stood there to approach them.
She did so, and Lucille noticed that her face was lighter than those
about her, and she looked neat in her attire.
“Yellow Bird, I wish you to get your traps and come on up to the
cabin. You are to look after this captive of mine while she is here,
and take good care of her.”
The woman had glanced at Lucille as she came up, but that was all,
and she replied, in fair English:
“Yellow Bird will do as the white chief bids her.”
Then they rode on, and soon halted before the cabin, which was built
of hewn logs, with boards roughly sawed out of hewn timber serving as
roofing. There was a porch along the front, and it was certainly a
very fine cabin to find in an Indian village.
The chief took a key from a hiding place, which he appeared to know
of, and unlocked the door.
There were four rooms in the cabin, and Lucille saw that it was
furnished, though rudely, for the renegade had brought his
belongings with him when he had fled from his own people.
“You will be at home here, Miss Fallon.”
“Yes, at home!” repeated Lucille, with sarcasm, to add quickly:
“But it is so much better than I expected, you have treated me so
much differently than I anticipated, that I thank you.”
The moment that she was left alone by the outlaw, and she saw him and
his braves ride away, Lucille Fallon yielded to the prerogative of a
woman, and, seating herself in the cabin, burst into tears.
“At home! Ah! if this were to be my home, I would rather that the
grave should be,” she cried bitterly.
She had totally forgotten about the Indian woman until she heard the
gently uttered words:
“Don’t cry, paleface.”
She started to her feet, for she was too proud to wish any one to see
her weeping.
Before her stood Yellow Bird, the half-breed Indian woman. She had
tidied herself up, and had a bundle under her arms. Her face was a
good one, not cruel, and she said again:
“Don’t cry, Yellow Bird be good to you.”
Lucille stepped forward and grasped the woman’s hand.
“You are good, I can see that. You have lived among the palefaces,
the outlaw told me?”
“Yes, my mother was a paleface squaw, my father a great Indian chief.
He died, and my mother went back to her people, taking me with her.
She died, and I work hard for officer’s family at fort far away. I
hear them say: ‘She only half-breed Injun; watch her.’ I feel mad,
I feel bad, and run away back to my people. But some treat me good,
one young squaw pretty, just like you, and I love her. I love you for
her. Yellow Bird be good to you.”
The tears came into the eyes of Lucille, and, stepping close up to
the woman, she kissed her.
It was under the impulse of her loneliness, her sorrow, her
helplessness, and the kind words spoken to her.
The squaw started as though she had been struck a blow, for it fairly
frightened her, but she said quickly:
“Oh, yes, Yellow Bird be heap good to little paleface.”
Then she set about her work to clean up, just as she had done when
living in the officer’s family. She got water from a spring near, and
built a fire in the large hearth, so that the cabin soon no longer
looked forlorn.
The outlaw had left the stage cushions there, the stores he had
bought in Pioneer City and Lucille’s satchel, and the young captive
was soon quite comfortable, and she began to feel that she had cause
to congratulate herself, after all, that matters were as they were.
In Yellow Bird she believed she had found a friend. Yet Lucille was
not one to gush, and she decided that there was a very narrow margin
between deceit and sincerity in one’s appearance, so she wished to
know whether the Indian woman was really true or false.
As she watched the squaw preparing supper, she asked her about Death
Face, the young chief.
“He heap good young chief--heap like paleface. He be great chief some
day, and maybe have peace with palefaces, for he don’t like to kill
Little Paleface’s people, but big fighter in battle. Red people all
love Death Face. Iron Eyes heap cruel man, kill and scalp paleface,
hate them bad. Iron Eyes kill many.”
Lucille glanced out of the open window and said half aloud:
“Speak of the devil, and his imp appears. There comes Death Face now.”
He rode up to the front of the cabin and was alone.
Lucille walked out on the piazza and to her surprise he bowed
courteously to her and then said:
“I hope you are comfortable here!”
“Comfortable, yes, far more so than I anticipated being, but unhappy,
as you may know, for my people are not your people, my life not your
life, we are raised in a different atmosphere and are foes.”
The chieftain listened to her in deepest attention, gazing fixedly at
her, and then said:
“I like to hear you talk, for it brings back to me the voice of those
I loved, those who are gone.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“I mean one whom I loved as a father, another who was a mother to
me, and a sister and brother. They are all gone--dead; but I had not
forgotten them, and you bring them back to me now, so I love to look
at you, love to hear you talk.
“Speak again, for your voice is as sweet as the murmur of the brook
in summer, as sweet as the trilling of the birds, and your face as
lovely as the mountain flowers that seem timid, just like you.”
Lucille listened with rapt attention to the words of the strange
young chief, for he spoke with a softness of tone, a respectful look,
and with words that fell strangely from the lips of an Indian, and
were in strong contrast to the hideously painted death face with
which he had ornamented his countenance.
As though he feared he should not talk to the captive longer, Death
Face said:
“I will go now, but I came to see if I could help you, if I could
make you more comfortable.
“This was my home once, and I am glad to have you here.
“Do you see those graves under the ridge yonder?--they are buried
there, those I loved, and I put white crosses above their graves, and
cut their names on them with my knife.”
“You can read, then?”
“Oh, yes, and write. You will find books in the cabin to read. Don’t
feel bad, for you shall not be harmed, for Death Face says so. I will
come again.”
He wheeled his horse and rode rapidly away, leaving Lucille wondering
at her strange Indian acquaintance.
Walking over to the graves under the ridge, Lucille saw that there
were four of them, all marked by rude wooden crosses, but it was too
dark to see the names, and she hastened back to the cabin, where
Yellow Bird had her supper ready.
It was a tempting repast, and eaten with real relish, Lucille talking
the while to the squaw and asking her about the young chief, Death
Face.
Yellow Bird had little more to tell her than what she had already
known, or would not tell her more. She did not say that all the
maidens in the village were in love with the young chief, but that he
seemed to care for none of them.
The firelight was the only light they had in the cabin, and Lucille
asked the woman to bring in wood enough to burn all night.
This Yellow Bird did, and then the captive spread some bedding, put
the serapes the chief had given her over them, and retired for the
night, bolting the doors firmly.
Yellow Bird spread her bed in front of the fire, and the two were
soon fast asleep.
When Lucille awoke the next morning she found Yellow Bird was getting
breakfast, and the squaw told her that the young chief had been there
early and left bear and other robes for her, dressed deerskins, and
plenty of game and fish which he had shot and caught.
The outlaw came after breakfast and asked her how she was, and then
said:
“There is a hammock in this house, Death Face told me, so I will
swing it on the porch for you.”
The hammock was found, swung, and then the outlaw said:
“I have brought you pen, ink, and paper, Miss Fallon, and I wish you
to write a letter to your father.
“Tell him how you are treated by me, but make known that he must pay
the sum of twenty thousand dollars for your ransom. The letter will
be mailed to him at Pioneer City, and he shall send his answer by
Jack Jessop, who will be met by a man whom I will instruct to be on
hand. Your father must state in his letter if he will pay that ransom
on the next run of the coach, and send it by Jack Jessop to be given
to my representative. If my man is harmed, then I will not answer for
your safety.
“But, if he promises to send the money by Jessop, when he is ready to
pay it, then you will be returned to him in safety, being given into
Jack Jessop’s charge the third run of the coach after your father
writes agreeing to my terms. Do you understand, Miss Fallon?”
“Perfectly.”
“I will write also, and you shall see my letter. Then I will see that
the letters are mailed without delay in Pioneer City.”
“It can be done none too soon to please me.”
“So I thought.”
“One minute, please?”
“Yes.”
“You said on the way here that you would tell me a secret some day
that I am interested in.”
“I believe I will tell you a secret,” said the man, thoughtfully, and
he sat down upon the porch.
Lucille sat in the hammock, using it for a swing, and the strangeness
of her situation and surroundings could not but impress her.
“I’ll tell you my secret, yes, and perhaps you will then understand
that I seek revenge as well as gold from your father. By the way, do
you think I resemble your father?”
“In form, yes, and in face, also, save for the stamp of wickedness on
your countenance.”
“Well, he is innocent, I am evil. But we should be alike, for we are
brothers.”
Lucille sprang out, of the hammock and cried fiercely:
“It is false!”
“I tell you we are brothers, he being several years my senior,” said
the outlaw. “My first love was a young and beautiful girl, and,
though she loved me, he stole her from me.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Well, he married her, that is certain----”
“My mother?”
“Oh, no; your mother was his second wife.
“He won my sweetheart from me, married her, and then went to Texas
to live. I heard afterward that his wife died after two years of
wedded life, but I did not know, did not care, and I was not aware of
where he was, or what doing until during the Civil War. I was taken
prisoner by the Confederates, when in my captor, the colonel of a
regiment, I recognized my brother. He knew me at a glance, and he
came to me and we had a long talk together.
“He told me that he had not known of my love for the woman he
married, that he had never been told by her or her parents about an
engagement between her and myself, that I was away and he therefore
could not hear it from my own lips, and hence he had asked her to
be his wife. He was going to Texas to live, and the marriage was
hastened and she went with him, and only when on her dying bed had
she confessed to him that she had been engaged to me.
“Then he had written me the truth; but his letter I never received,
and I did not believe what he told me.”
“Yet it was the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“I have his first wife’s written confession, in which she told all,
and how her parents had told her not to speak of her love affair with
you, as he was rich, you were not, having squandered much of your
fortune in fast living. Her name was Dorothy Armand, and she left her
confession with her jewelry and other things that my father placed in
my mother’s keeping, and all of which she left to me.”
“Yes, her name was Dorothy Armand, as you say; but she deceived me,
and I would not believe her dying confession, or take my brother’s
word, either, for they wronged me, and I never forgive a wrong.”
“But my father never did you a wrong, whatever his wife did in
deceiving him as to her engagement to you,” said Lucille warmly.
“His name is Louis Fallon Lamar, and he was a colonel in the
Confederate army, as I have said, and a Texan ranchero. He got me
exchanged, I admit, and gave me money; but that did not atone for
the past, and I hated him, for even in war he beat me, as he rose to
be a colonel of cavalry, I only a captain of infantry.
“He had married again, he told me, and had a daughter, but I was glad
to feel that he was ruined by the war. What became of him then I
never knew until I recognized him as a soldier in the United States
army, and only a sergeant.
“Then I remembered that I had heard that a Southerner of our name had
killed a man in the East, and had fled to escape the gallows.
“I wrote East, got the particulars, and found that it was my brother
Louis. I have only hoped to capture him that I might send him back as
a fugitive from justice to be hanged.”
Lucille’s eyes flashed fire, and for a moment she did not speak. Then
she said:
“Let me ask you to look me in the eyes while I tell you what I know
about what you have told me of my father.”
“I am listening.”
“My father did come out of the war ruined almost. He had married
again, my mother being his second wife. He had felt keenly the
unhappy circumstances of his first marriage, in fact, it cut him to
the heart. He saved my mother’s father’s life at the risk of his
own, was wounded by the shot intended for my grandfather, who took
father to his home, where his daughter, my mother, nursed him through
a long siege of suffering. My mother loved him, and he loved her, so
they were married.
“My father went North on business, accompanied a gentleman to his
home one night with whom he had some business. Burglars broke into
the house, and the host was shot down and robbed. Before he died he
stated under oath that it was my father who had killed him, that they
had a business deal on hand, that my father knew he had thousands of
dollars in his home, and had come into his room at night and killed
him.
“My father had been in a distant wing of the house, had arisen at the
noise of the struggle, had gone to the aid of his friend, to come
face to face with you as you fled. You were dressed just as he was,
you had killed your man, robbed him, and were flying. Stunned by the
recognition, my father had been incapable of action, and, tottering
to a seat, had remained there until arrested as the murderer.
“Determined not to hang for your crime, and feeling that there was no
hope for him, he sprang upon the constable who guarded him, choked
him into unconsciousness, secured the keys of his manacles, freed
himself, and fled. He wrote my mother that he was not guilty of the
crime, but circumstantial evidence was against him, his insane flight
added seeming proof, and she unfortunately believed that he had
committed the deed, and wrote to him.
“Thus a wide gulf was between them, and he became a homeless wanderer
and fugitive. He went to dwell among the Indians, and, having been
educated as a physician, he became a medicine man in the tribe,
checked a smallpox epidemic in their midst, and became a great chief,
honored and loved by them. Discovering gold in his wanderings, he hid
it away and at last decided to make good use of it. So he left the
Indian village, carrying his gold on pack horses, and, going to a
settlement, shipped it home to my mother.
“It was a fortune for us, and she gladly received it, for her income
was not large, and long before she had repented of her belief in my
father’s guilt, and tried in vain to find him.
“One day, just one year ago, my mother received a letter from the
judge of the court in the city where the murder was committed
which had wrecked my father’s life. It told of the confession of a
prisoner, who had died in prison, that my father was innocent of the
crime, that it was his brother who had been the murderer--he, the
prisoner, being his ally--and that he saw the recognition of his
brother by my father, and the shock it gave him.
“But the murderer had committed other crimes, forcing him to become
a fugitive, and so he could not be found, nor could my father, who
afterward, I learned, had entered the army on the border. My mother
was dying then, and I had to cling to her. She died, and soon after I
had my lawyer find out if Sergeant Louis Fallon was my father, and he
did so.
“Then I wrote him that I would come to him. You know the rest, and I
know that you have wronged my father beyond all forgiveness. Yes, you
are his crime-stained brother, Loyd Lamar.”