A SPY IN THE REDSKINS' CAMP.
Now that the reader is aware that the pretended Brule medicine Chief
Moon Eyes, was none other than Kit Carey, it will be well to watch his
career in the camp of the redskins.
Speaking the language as he did, acquainted with all their
superstitions and customs, and utterly devoid of fear, he had decided
upon the bold move he had entered upon not only to endeavor to rescue
Jennie Woodbridge from her merciless captor, but to discover all that
he could regarding the exact fighting force of the hostiles, their
means of subsistence, chances of holding out, and just how they were
armed.
He was also anxious to know if there was any move intended in force in
a dash upon the settlements, the agency, or by ambushing one of the
commands that were encircling them.
As a Brule medicine man he could glean information without appearing to
seek it, and he knew that his safety lay in not standing inspection in
the broad glare of day.
He had assumed the name of Moon Eyes, pretending that only by night
should he be seen and attend to his duties, and this gave him a chance
to lie hidden by day, or rather keep within the shadow of his medicine
tepee.
The Sun Gazer was equally anxious to be about only by day, and the
vindictive old wretch lost no time in trying to ferment trouble.
Just who Moon Eyes was he did not know, but the stranger flattered the
vanity of the old medicine chief to such an extent that he was willing
to swear by him to the end.
Having returned from dispatching his courier to the general, Moon Eyes
at once began to circulate all around the camps, still keeping up his
incantations to the moon, until that orb went down behind the horizon.
In doing this there was method in the seeming madness of the fake
medicine man, for he had discovered the position of the camps most
completely, and all that he cared to know about the strength of the
hostiles.
He found out just where the young captive was quartered, and he
overheard enough, among a council of chiefs, to know that they were
anxious to kill and scalp himself.
With the scalp of Kit Carey in their possession the chiefs thought that
it would bring them luck and teach their white foes the lesson that
they were in earnest.
In spite of his rank the Indians regarded Kit Carey as holding a most
important position in the army, for it was by his deeds that they knew
him, and the fact that he commanded the Indian soldiers clustered about
their lines.
So it was decided to send out a young Brule warrior, bearing the very
appropriate name of Not-Afraid-of-Death to kill the white captain, or
any other army officer that he might be able to lead into a trap.
Having made the discovery that Not-Afraid-of-Death was to take the
trail before dawn, Kit Carey returned to the medicine lodge, and told
the old chief that he was to "go into the shadows of sleep," and not
to be disturbed until he awoke after nightfall, for he was to see what
fortune the moon held for the Indians.
Then he slipped again out of camp, and went to a position some distance
from the retreat, where Not-Afraid-of-Death was to start upon his trail
for an officer's scalp, his fondest desire being to raise the hair of
Kit Carey.
Having secured a point of look-out, the white captain lay in wait for
future developments.
Along in the morning Not-Afraid-of-Death was visible scouting along a
ridge, as though he saw an enemy, for his every movement indicated as
much.
He was a Brule, and with him was an Ogallala warrior, and the two ran
in a crouching position to a certain point.
Who they were watching Kit Carey could not see, for the ridge shut
their intended victim from his sight.
But soon after there rode into view an officer accompanied by an Indian
scout.
Quickly Kit Carey drew his glass from beneath his robe and turned it
upon the officer, who sat upon his horse reconnoitering the country
before him. He gazed for a while through the glass, and then muttered:
"It is that splendid fellow, Casey, of the Twenty-second Infantry, and
who has a command of irregular cavalry. He is too daring to venture
thus far into the lines," added the white captain, seeming to forget
what he was then engaged in.
Lieutenant Casey still sat upon his horse some distance from where
Kit Carey was in hiding, and his glass swept the country thoroughly,
taking in the dust as it arose under the hoofs of some Indian rider,
and noting the plateau and buttes beyond, where was the camp of the
hostiles.
Behind him was his sole companion, the Indian soldier, who sat like a
statue on his horse, awaiting the will of the young officer.
"I wish I could get to speak to Casey and warn him off, for he is in
great danger of a shot from some hostile scout lying in hiding; but I
dare not make the attempt, for I would be seen, and that would end my
career very quickly. But if I could only see him for half an hour's
talk, I would be able to explain much, which I cannot write--ah! he is
going--no, he is riding nearer to the hostiles' lines. Heaven grant he
be not sacrificed to his recklessness. Great God! it is as I feared!
poor Casey has got his death wound, but his slayer shall never have his
scalp!" and Kit Carey threw his rifle to his shoulder as he spoke, and
pulled trigger as soon as his aim fell upon the Indian bounding forward
to scalp the daring Casey, who had dropped dead from his horse at the
fire from an Indian, who had suddenly risen from behind the ridge near
him.
At the shot from behind him Lieutenant Casey had thrown up his arms,
and then fell from his saddle as his horse wheeled and ran off, while
the Indian soldier in alarm had also fled at full speed.
The Indian bounding to secure the scalp of the young officer was
Not-Afraid-of-Death, the Brule warrior, and he held his scalping-knife
in hand, while from his lips burst a triumphant war-cry.
But from afar off had come a white puff of smoke, a faint report of a
rifle followed, and then the sting of the bullet as it struck the Brule
brave and bringing him down as he ran, his rapid impetus causing him to
roll over and over again.
All day long the avenger watched the body of the young officer and his
slayer, not daring to venture near, or leave his hiding-place, and
then, to his joy, he saw the Indian soldier come in sight, followed by
a party of cavalry, and, dashing up to the spot, carry off the body of
the officer, while the Cheyenne scout quickly removed the scalp of the
dead Brule, though he could give no account of his killing.
And then, as the evening shadows began to lengthen, the disguised
officer made his way back toward the retreat of the hostiles, to once
more play the daring role of spy in the hostile camp.