Fred Wilder accompanied his new friend without any doubt or hesitation.
He knew that the word of an Indian was sacred, when pledged to his
adopted brother, and he felt no uneasiness as to the treatment he would
receive among the Blackfeet.
In the course of three days they arrived safely at the Blackfeet
village, where White Shield introduced his brother, Silverspur, as a
great warrior, a man wonderful for strength of arms, keenness of eye,
activity of limb, and bigness of heart. He related the particulars of
the encounter in which he had formed the acquaintance of the white man,
and gave him credit for extraordinary bravery and skill. He concluded
by declaring that Silverspur was his sworn brother, and must be treated
as such; that he must have full liberty to live among the Blackfeet, to
hunt, fish and trade as he pleased, and to go and come as might suit
his pleasure.
Instead of being displeased at the arrival of the white man, the
Blackfeet appeared to be very well satisfied, and passed many encomiums
upon White Shield for having brought such a valuable accession to their
tribe. Some of them had heard of Silverspur, and could echo the praise
that White Shield bestowed upon him. His rifle had sent death to more
than one Blackfoot warrior, and they knew it; but that only added to
his glory as a warrior, and they were proud to claim him as one of
themselves. Good Ax, the head chief, granted him unlimited trading
privileges, and invited him to “marry and settle”--in other words, to
select a wife, or as many wives as he wanted.
Silverspur, whose heart had not been enamored by the fair-skinned
beauties of his own race, and who was not likely to yield to
the fascinations of any dusky damsel, evaded the matrimonial
responsibility, saying that he thought it best to wait until he became
better known, and that, in the mean time, he would share the lodge of
White Shield, who happened to be a bachelor.
A few days after his introduction to the Blackfeet, on his return from
a hunting-excursion, he found that a war-party, which had been absent
for some time, had arrived at the village. They had been victorious
over their adversaries, but had lost a few of their number, for which
reason they were debarred from dancing, or rejoicing over their
victory. On the contrary, the village was filled with mourning, and the
wailing of the mourners, together with the horrible manner in which
they mangled themselves, so disgusted the young man that he did not
care to inquire further concerning the affair.
Soon after this, there was an alarm at the village, occasioned by the
attempt of some marauders to steal horses. Most of the warriors went
out to meet the enemy; but Fred Wilder, who did not care to expose his
life in the quarrels of the red-men, remained in his lodge, smoking
his pipe, and mentally abusing himself for the roving disposition that
brought him into “the tents of Ishmael.”
The affair was soon quieted, and the warriors returned in high glee.
They had captured two prisoners, as White Shield informed his friend,
and had taken a scalp. The mourning in the village, therefore, was
at an end. All washed their faces, and prepared for a dance and a
jollification.
As sleep was out of the question, in the midst of such an uproar,
Wilder sallied out and joined the dancers. The scalp which was the
occasion of the revelry, together with one which had been brought in
by the war-party, was suspended upon a pole, and Wilder inspected
them with the others. The hair of one of the scalps was short, black
and curly. That of the other was short, thin and silver gray. It was
evident to the young trapper that neither was the scalp of an Indian,
and he called White Shield aside to speak to him concerning them.
“That black scalp yonder,” said he, “is not the scalp of an Indian.”
“No; it is the scalp of a white man.”
“They were white men, then, who came to steal horses?”
“Yes; and the two prisoners are white men.”
“Is the gray scalp the scalp of a white man, too?”
“Yes. We would have had a big dance over that scalp, if we had not lost
two warriors in the fight. It is the scalp of the white-haired chief.”
“And who was he?”
“I thought you knew him. You call him Robinette, the trader.”
“Whew! The old fellow is dead, then,” said Wilder, musingly. “He was a
strange man, shrewd, daring, but rather unscrupulous, as I have heard.
Did your braves capture his train?”
“No. They came across his party, and stampeded the horses. As they had
surprised the camp, they thought they might do more; but the white men
beat them off at last. The men who came to-night were his men. They
wanted to get back some of their horses, or to look for the white girl.”
“What white girl?”
“The daughter of the white-haired chief.”
“Is she here?”
“She is in the village. Has not my brother seen her?”
“No. I know nothing of her.”
“You will not be likely to see her for a while, as Good Ax, the head
chief, means to take her into his lodge, and she has been shut up from
the village.”
Wilder mused a little, and his musings were in this wise:
Why had Paul Robinette brought his daughter into that wilderness? Why
had he, Fred Wilder, given himself up to an aimless and roving life?
It was very foolish in both of them; but fate had led them to it. It
was the fate of Mr. Robinette to be killed and scalped, and it might be
the fate of him, Fred Wilder, to have come among the Blackfeet to be of
service to the daughter of the murdered man. At all events, she was a
woman, and it was his duty to befriend her. It was his duty, also, to
befriend the two white captives, and their turn might come first. It
would be well for him to see how far he might go with the Blackfeet.
Turning to White Shield, he said:
“What will be done with the white prisoners?”
“They will be burned.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it. They are to be burned early to-morrow morning.”
“I will bet you, White Shield, ten packs of beaver-skins, that they
will not be burned while Silverspur lives.”
“What does my brother mean?”
“I mean that I will not allow them to be burned.”
“What will you do?”
“Perhaps I will do nothing; but they shall not be burned.”
“Has my brother lost his senses? He surely does not mean what he says.”
“You will see that I mean it. I am going to the lodge, White Shield. I
am tired of this deviltry.”
Wilder turned his back upon the crowd of dancing and yelling Indians,
and retired to his lodge, where he pondered his own situation and that
of Flora Robinette, until he fell asleep.
In the morning there was a great commotion in the village. Preparations
were made for the torture of the two white captives, and all the
Blackfeet were early astir. Two stout stakes were set in the ground,
near the middle of the village, and the victims were brought to them,
surrounded and followed by a motley throng of Indians, of all ages and
both sexes.
Dennis Regan, who had not spoken a word since his vow of the previous
night, was bound to one post, and Pap Byers to the other, and what may
be called the small torturing commenced. Women and children assailed
the white men with all sorts of opprobrious epithets, beat them with
sticks, kicked them, pinched them, pulled their hair, and provoked them
by every means in their power.
Byers hurled back their taunts indignantly, and abused the Blackfeet
to the best of his ability. He knew what sort of a death they intended
for him, and he hoped to arouse them to such fury that, in a moment of
anger, they might kill him at once. He boasted of the number of their
braves that he had slain, and accused them of cowardice, taunting them
with not daring to take the life of a white man, even when he was bound
before them. They could not hurt him, he said, and he dared them to
do their worst, as a white warrior could teach them how to die. The
Irishman remained silent. When he was spoken to, he pointed to his
tongue, and shook his head; but not a word escaped his lips.
The warriors soon put a stop to this play. Scattering the women and
children, they brought poles and twigs, which they piled in a circle,
nearly waist high, around the victims. Then, amid diabolical yells and
screeches, fire was put to the piles, and the torture commenced.
It was not to last long. Hardly had the flames begun to crackle among
the twigs, when Fred Wilder, fully armed, strode into the throng,
kicked away the burning poles, stamped out the fire, and took his stand
near the prisoners, gazing defiantly at the crowd of savages.
The Blackfeet were astonished at his audacity. Some of them laid their
hands upon their weapons; but all drew back, as if bewildered, and
wondering what might happen next. After a few moments, Good Ax, the
head chief, stepped forward and addressed the intruder.
“Why does Silverspur seek to interfere with his brothers? Has he
forgotten that when he became a Blackfoot, he ceased to be a white man?”
“My heart is white, and always will be,” fiercely replied Wilder. “I
can not stand by and see men of my own race murdered. What have these
white men done to you, that you wish to burn them?”
“We caught them stealing our horses.”
“They had a right to try to recover the property which you had taken
from them.”
“But the white men are the enemies of the Blackfeet.”
“Say, rather, that, the Blackfeet are the enemies of the white men,
who have never mistreated you, and have never fought you except when
you have compelled them to do so. Look at these men! One of them, as
you can see, is not able to speak. Would you slay a man who has been
stricken by the Great Spirit? I say that they shall not be burned while
I live, and I know well that more than one of you will fall before I
die.”
It is said that a wild beast will shrink from the steady glance
of a brave man. So did the savages quail before the fearless eye
and undaunted demeanor of Fred Wilder. His audacity seemed almost
supernatural, and made them fear that he might have something to back
him which they could not even guess at.
In a few minutes, however, this feeling passed away. They saw that he
was but a man, as they were, and they began to think of punishing him
for his bold attempt to spoil their sport. Their threatening looks and
hostile attitudes caused him to raise his rifle and level it at the
most demonstrative. In another moment there might have been bloodshed;
but White Shield suddenly changed the face of affairs. Bursting through
the throng, he took his stand by the side of his friend.
“White Shield is a warrior!” he exclaimed. “He is a great brave, and he
never feared the face of an enemy. There is none who can lay cowardice
or crime to the charge of White Shield. Shall he hang back, like a dog,
when his brother is in danger? Silverspur is his sworn brother, and
he is ready to die for his brother, whether he is right or wrong. He
is not wrong. These white men are his friends, and the Blackfoot who
would not try to save the life of his friend would be called a coward.
Come, my brothers! Who will go to the spirit-land with White Shield and
Silverspur?”
A number of the relatives of White Shield, both old and young, came
forward, with their weapons in their hands, and ranged themselves by
his side. As the hostile parties confronted each other, the affair
seemed about to assume a serious aspect, when the head chief stepped
forward and spoke.
“This is a small matter to us,” he said, “and we would do wrong to kill
each other about it. One of these prisoners, as Silverspur has said,
has been stricken by the Great Spirit, and we can easily give the life
of the other to our white brother. Loose them from the stakes, but let
them be securely guarded. They shall live, but they must not leave us
until we move the village. Is Silverspur satisfied?”
Wilder expressed his satisfaction, and pressed the hand of the chief.
When the prisoners had been led away, and the crowd had dispersed, he
returned to his lodge with White Shield.