White Shield joined the Arapahoes in the chase of Silverspur.
With the Blackfoot paint washed from his face, and with his blanket
over his head, he had entered the village, and had had no difficulty
in going where he pleased, and making such examinations as he wished
to make. He mingled with the Arapahoes on the street of the village,
entered some of their lodges, and even conversed with them. But he did
not find Flora Robinette, nor did he see or hear any thing to lead him
to suppose that she was still among the Arapahoes.
Desiring to make his search as thorough as possible, he remained longer
than he had expected to when he parted from Silverspur. The barking of
the dog made him anxious concerning his friend, and presented him at
the same time, as he thought, a good opportunity to get clear of the
village.
“That is my dog,” he said, as some of the warriors began to show signs
of uneasiness at the continued barking of the animal. “I will go and
see what is the matter with him.”
This expression, by which the Blackfoot hoped to cover his friend,
nearly brought him into trouble. It so happened that there was only
one dog in the village, and that its owner was standing by when White
Shield spoke. This Indian turned upon him angrily, and he could only
avoid the consequences of his damaging remark by passing it off as
a joke. The owner of the dog went to look for the animal, and White
Shield sidled away from the group of Indians who had begun to suspect
him.
Shortly there came from the forest a yell, piercing and full of
anguish, that was at once recognized as the death-cry of the man who
had gone to the dog.
The savages bounded away to avenge the death of their comrade, and
White Shield joined them, hoping to get clear himself, if he could do
nothing to aid his friend. Although several of the warriors were ahead
of him, he soon perceived that Silverspur had mounted his horse, and
was rapidly flying from his pursuers.
Believing that his friend on horseback could easily distance the
Indians on foot, he thought it best to look to his own safety.
In their eager pursuit the Arapahoes had passed the place from which
Silverspur had started, and where the horse of the Blackfoot was still
concealed. Profiting by their negligence, White Shield lingered behind
until all had passed him. He then untethered his horse, and quietly led
him away until he was out of hearing of the Arapahoes, when he mounted,
and rode off into the prairie, where he hoped to find his friend.
When he believed himself to be at a safe distance, he halted and
listened anxiously; but he heard nothing of the wild triumphant yell
that would have announced the death or capture of the fugitive.
Concluding, therefore, that Silverspur had escaped, he rode about
until daylight, expecting to meet him. In this he was disappointed,
as he could not find even a trail. He at last perceived that it would
be necessary to commence the search at the beginning--to start at the
place from which Silverspur had started.
He concealed his horse, and went to the spot where he had left
Silverspur the night before. It was easy to track the fugitive by the
footprints of his horse, and White Shield followed them through the
forest and over a piece of level ground beyond, until they abruptly
terminated at the edge of a precipice.
The Blackfoot looked over the precipice, and saw that it was a fearful
leap to the bottom. It was not to be supposed that a man could take
such a leap and live. He was forced to the conclusion that Silverspur
had taken this leap in the dark, and had been killed.
By a circuitous route White Shield reached the ravine at the foot of
the bluff, and there saw abundant evidence of the truth of his surmise.
There were spots of blood upon the stones, and an indentation of the
turf showed that a heavy body had fallen upon it. There were many
footprints in the vicinity, and a trail led up one of the hills that
surrounded the ravine. The Arapahoes had carried away the body, no
doubt, and their silence the previous night was occasioned by the fact
that they had not then descended into the ravine to search for their
victim.
White Shield did not follow the trail that led up the hill, as he
supposed that it only went around to the village. It was possible
that his friend might still be living, though terribly mangled. If he
was dead, it would be some satisfaction to recover his scalp from his
enemies. To this purpose White Shield now devoted himself.
After dark he went to the Arapaho village, and prowled about their
lodges, confident that there would be some sort of a celebration over
their victory, if the death of Silverspur could be so regarded. He was
not mistaken. Bonfires were blazing, and preparations were being made
for a grand jubilee, which soon commenced.
Near the largest bonfire was a pole, from which a single scalp was
hanging. Around this men and women, mingled together, danced and sung,
and every now and then, at the tap of a drum, one of the warriors would
step forward and recount his exploits.
White Shield did not long witness this scene from concealment. He felt
sure that Silverspur was dead, and that the Arapahoes were rejoicing
over his scalp. This awakened in him a desire to snatch the trophy
from their possession, and to take vengeance upon them for the death
of his friend. He was just in the mood for such an achievement. He had
deserted his tribe, Silverspur was gone, and there would be no one to
mourn for him if he should fall. In fact, he was desperate, ready at
any moment to sing his death-song and pass to the spirit-land.
He threw his blanket over his head, and mingled with the Indians of the
village. He was not foolhardy enough to join the dance; but he forced
his way into the circle, and walked up to the pole from which the scalp
was hanging.
To his great surprise he perceived that the scalp was dry, as if it had
long hung in the smoke of a lodge. The hair, moreover, was thin and
gray, almost white. White Shield had never heard any of those tales of
civilized men whose hair has suddenly turned gray from the effect of
terrible fright or severe suffering. If he had read them, he would not
for a moment have believed that any thing could change the long and
waving masses of Silverspur’s brown hair to those thin gray threads.
It was not Silverspur’s scalp. His friend was living; or, if he was
dead, the Arapahoes had not been able to outrage his remains. White
Shield was no longer desperate. He had an object to live for, and his
caution returned to him. His entrance into the circle, his examination
of the gray scalp, and the train of thought which followed from that
examination, had occupied only a few moments of time; but he felt that
he was in a dangerous position, from which he would find it difficult
to extricate himself.
The warriors were already scrutinizing him, with glances full of
suspicion. If he should step out as he had come in, he would be
followed and questioned, and it would soon be discovered that he was a
stranger and an enemy. He might run for his life; but his chances of
escape would be very poor, and, if he should succeed, the Arapahoes
would be put on their guard against his subsequent movements.
His resolution was as audacious as it was sudden. At the tap of the
drum he threw off his blanket, and stepped forward.
“Arapahoes!” he exclaimed, “do you remember that, at the last season
of the falling leaf, you lost a tall warrior at the Black Fork of the
Platte? He was very strong, and a great brave. I killed him.”
“We remember,” responded some of the Arapahoes, looking up at the
speaker in surprise.
White Shield proceeded to mention other Arapahoes who had fallen by
his hand, and the same response followed each narration. At the fifth,
which filled the number allowed to each relator, a warrior started up.
“Are you speaking the truth?” he said. “It was White Shield, a great
brave of the Blackfeet, who killed Red Bear.”
“I am White Shield,” replied the Blackfoot. “I am a warrior, as you
know, and a great brave. I have left the Blackfeet, and they would kill
me if they should see me. I have come to the Arapahoes, who are great
warriors, to make them my brothers, and to fight for them. Do you want
me, Arapahoes? If you do, I will stay with you. If not, I am ready to
sing my death-song and go to the spirit-land.”
The audacious warrior had not to wait a moment for a response. The
Arapahoes thronged about him tumultuously, embracing him, and covering
him with presents.
His initiation into the tribe was completed; but it must be confessed
that he did not intend to remain an Arapaho. He had joined them for the
purpose of saving his own scalp and rendering assistance to his friend.
Further than this he did not then look.
He soon made inquiries concerning the scalp which had been the occasion
of the dance, and was told the story of the chase of an unknown white
man who had been discovered by a dog, and who had been killed by a fall
from a cliff.
White Shield was puzzled. The Arapahoes described the pursuit of
Silverspur; but the scalp was not his. Who had the old medicine-man
buried, and whose scalp had he given to the warriors? Surely it could
not be Silverspur. White Shield said nothing more concerning the scalp,
but determined to investigate the matter quietly.
As soon as it was dusk he left the village, and went to the place where
he had concealed his horse. The animal was safe; but the keen eye of
the Blackfoot quickly detected signs of some presence besides his own.
Somebody had been there during his absence, and, unless his penetration
was greatly at fault, somebody was still concealed in the vicinity.
White Shield applied himself to find out who this somebody was. While
he affected to busy himself about his horse, his bright eyes searched
the forest, and took note of every tree, twig, leaf and blade of
grass within the range of his vision. In the course of this searching
investigation he saw another pair of eyes, twinkling from behind a
leafy hedge of bushes. He was sure that those eyes belonged to a
white man, and the white man could not be Silverspur, who would have
recognized him and spoken to him. Any other white man was his enemy,
and this one had been lying in wait for him.
The Blackfoot left the horse, and walked toward the thicket in which
he had seen the eyes glisten. He walked slowly, looking about him upon
the ground, as if searching for something he had lost. He passed the
thicket, and then, with the quickness of lightning, turned and threw
himself upon his concealed foe.
A brief struggle followed, in which both of the combatants came
crashing out of the bushes, and fell upon the ground. But the red-man
had the advantage of surprise--of the first attack--and he kept it.
In a few seconds his enemy was under his knee, and his right hand was
raised, ready to strike with his glittering knife. The white man closed
his eyes, and muttered one word:
“Flora!”
The Indian started. His knife was lowered harmlessly, and the grasp
of his left hand was relaxed. “Flora!”--he had heard the name used by
Silverspur, and perhaps this white man might be a friend of her whom
Silverspur called Flora.
“Who are you?” he asked in plain English. “Who is Flora?”
A thought occurred to the white man. A hope dawned upon him, and his
eyes brightened as they opened. This red-skin knew the name of Flora;
he was a Blackfoot, as was evident from his paint and his garb; he was
among the Arapahoes.
“Who are you?” asked the white man. “Are you the Blackfoot who went off
with Silverspur?”
“I am. Are you a friend to Silverspur?”
“I am not his enemy. I am George Benning,” replied the white man, who
was not sure in what position he stood toward Silverspur.
“Let my brother rise. Silverspur is my brother, and his friends are my
friends.”
The two men, forgetting their late conflict, seated themselves amicably
upon the ground, and conversed about the matters in which both were
deeply interested. White Shield related all he knew of Flora and
Silverspur, and enlightened the mind of Benning on some points that had
been dark to him; but there was nothing to show him that Silverspur had
or had not gained the love of Flora, and on this subject his anxiety
was still intense.
The question was, what had become of Flora and Silverspur? Believing
that two heads are better than one, and that his own was better than
the Blackfoot’s, Benning proposed to accompany White Shield to the
place at which Fred Wilder was supposed to have been killed by falling
from the cliff.
They went there, and made a careful examination of the locality; but
Benning was obliged to admit that he was as much in the dark as the
Indian was. It was unreasonable to suppose that a man could have fallen
from such a hight without being killed, and it was equally unreasonable
to suppose that the gray scalp that had been exhibited among the
Arapahoes had belonged to Silverspur. Both agreed that the only chance
of solving the mystery lay in following the trail that led up the hill;
but both agreed that it was useless to undertake the enterprise that
night.
Benning then informed the Blackfoot that he had come with a band of
Crow warriors, under the leadership of Bad Eye, their chief, who were
ready to aid him in any enterprise against the Arapahoes. They were
encamped at a little distance to the northward, and he had come on in
advance, to spy about the village of the Arapahoes.
White Shield was not entirely pleased with this communication, although
he showed no signs of displeasure. The Crows were the enemies of his
tribe, and the Arapahoes were now his friends. He was ready to shake
off his allegiance to them if he might thus benefit Silverspur; but
he was not willing to betray them to the Crows. He made no reply
to Benning, except to protest against any hostile act before the
whereabouts of Silverspur could be discovered.
On this point Benning was uncertain, as he feared that his own plans
and those of the Blackfoot might run counter to each other. He said
that the discovery must soon be made, if at all, as it would be
impossible for the Crows to remain long in the vicinity without a
conflict.
It was settled that they should commence the search together in the
morning, and White Shield returned to the village, as he could not be
absent from the Arapahoes the first night after his admission to the
tribe. Benning concluded to remain where he was, as he could hide there
as well as elsewhere, and would be at hand to take up the trail in the
morning.