CHAPTER VII.INDIANS!
Ashe spoke, the wolves scattered right and left, and ran in terror up the gullies at the sides of the pass. The men in the trees remained still as death, one from terror, the other from caution.
There was good reason for the hasty fight of the wolves and the silence of the men hidden in the trees. A band of savages were coming down the mountain pass, admirably mounted, dressed in the gaudy style of the Indian warrior, with flaming feathers and beaded garments. Each poised in his right hand a long buffalo-lance, which they managed to carry gracefully, without appearing to incumber them. Some of them bore a small shield of buffalo-hide, but most of them rather depended upon their own activity than this slight defense. In front of the band rode a tall chief in a rich costume, with a belt of worked wampum thrown over his shoulder and buckled about his waist. He eschewed the lance, and carried instead a beautiful rifle. His figure was commanding, and he had a noble head, a nose cut like Cæsar’s, and a firm mouth. His eye was black and piercing. His hair long and dropping on his shoulders. By his side, armed in every respect like the elder, rode the boy who had been taken prisoner by the trapper on the prairie and threatened by Jules.
The party might have contained a hundred in all, and a single glance convinced the trapper that they were Blackfeet. They pulled up at the skeleton of the bear, uttering cries of surprise, for, of all animals, they think the grizzly bear the fiercest, and most to be feared. They dismounted and examined the body. The head had been untouched by the wolves, and the gaping wound was revealed.
They crowded together about the body, chattering loudly, putting their hands into the wound, and evidently wondering what weapon could have inflicted it. Even the chief descended and looked at the body.
“They have great guns at the big wigwam which make a hole like this,” said he gravely. “This is a white man’s work. It is not a rifle.”
“Can a white man carry a great gun on his back?” said another Indian, in the dress of a chief. “I can not understand. Some medicine-man has taken the life of the big bear of the hills. It is no common gun.”
“Wah-be-o-win says well. All the white men are great medicine. My race pass away before them like trees before their axes. But Whirling Breeze will not live long enough to see the work done. While he is alive, there will be war between his people and the white men.”
“Why should we not make peace?” said a chief who had not spoken before. “Why should we fight against those who are stronger? I have been to the forts and I have been to the towns by the big water. They have talking-houses which make them flour, and guns and powder. They took me into these talking-houses, and showed me what was done. Why not be friends with them, since they be stronger than we?”
“Peace, Red Arm,” said Whirling Breeze, angrily. “The Blackfeet shall never bow the knee to the white men. They will die one by one, but they will never yield to the destroyer.”
“Let us find those who have done this,” said the chief, Wah-be-o-win. “We will take their scalps as a beginning.”
Whirling Breeze gave a signal, and all the braves bounded into the saddle and rode away down the pass.
Ben stretched out his head and watched them anxiously. There were two passes through the hills, and if the Indians would only take the wrong one it would give the whites a chance to run down and apprise their comrades of the danger. A moment of breathless suspense, and the party turned into the pass leading to the hunter’s camp.
“It’s all up,” said Ben. “Poor Jule is done fer, an’ that young chap Bentley. Come down, Jan. We must get out of the way as soon as possible. The durned thieves won’t be long gutting the concern.”
The old trapper helped Millicent from the tree. Jan came down in great haste and followed Ben’s lead. He turned intothe second pass before mentioned, and hurried down it half a mile. No concealment of the trail was attempted; but at last they reached a place where there was a break in the rocky sides of the cañon, and up this went the men, with their guns at a “right shoulder shift,” using one hand to assist them in climbing. Ben looked back once at Jan. All traces of fear had left his face, and his compressed lips told of a steadfast determination. Ben nodded, and muttered to himself. Millicent followed them bravely, pale, but evidently not from fear.
“He’ll do; I’ll cure him,” muttered Ben, “an’ the gal is good grit, too.”
The pass grew steeper. They slung the guns over their shoulders by the straps, and used both hands in dragging themselves up the ascent. They had to stop now and then to assist Millicent. Jan was puffing like a grampus. Millicent could hardly see why Ben had taken this course. From the spot where they stood they had a complete view of the valley and its occupants. It was already crowded by the Indian band, who were running about at will, peeping into the cabin, overturning camp-utensils and snapping the springs of some spare traps which had been left in the cabin. Ben looked in vain for the Frenchman. He had hidden somewhere on the first approach of the savages, and a number of them were scattered up and down, searching for him. It was clear they knew all about the camp, and the number of its occupants. Bentley was nowhere in sight, and Millicent began to hope.
“They don’t seem to t’ar things much, asyit,” said Ben. “I expect to see the dry bones rattle pretty soon. They kain’t help but burn us out. It’s in the’r natur’s, the condemned critters. I wisht I hed about a hundred Crows here, I’d make the feathers fly in thet thar company, I would. Durn a Blackfoot!”
“Vare pe Shule gone, Penn?” said Jan. “I not see ’im noveres. Unt vere ish Pentley?”
“No more I don’t know, Dutchy. They’ve got into kiver som’ers. But they’ll nose them out, ye see ef they don’t. A Blackfoot is wuss then a hound on a cold scent. Lordy! they ain’t got no chaince! An’ fer my part, I don’t see wharthey kin hev hid themselves. Thar ain’t no hole thet I know on.”
“Vat ish de Injun doin’ mit de hoss?” demanded Jan. “Shpose deyshteal’im?”
“Steal him! They’d steal the cents off’n a dead Dutchman’s eyes. Ye don’t know Blackfeet. Ido. They ain’t wuth a cuss. I wouldn’t take the offer to buy out the hull tribe, ef I c’u’d git ’em for a beaver-skin. Not the hull tribe. The’r’ in a state of gineral cussidness thet is alarmin’. I kain’t go a cent on ’em. An’ ef they take that hoss, I’ll extarminate the hull tribe. Don’t look skeered, miss. I reckon the young man is safe hid.”
“I dinks it would pe petter to keep avay,” said Jan. “I don’t dink it vould pe right to fite mit a dribe. I dinks dey vip us.”
“Don’t ye believe it! I consider myself capable of cleanin’ out the entire tribe. I kin do it every time. I kin do it jest ezeasy. What’s a little tribe of Injuns to a white human of my mental and moral caliber. I’m ez good ez a dozen missionaries,Iam. A missionary talks to ’em a while, an’ they listen tell they git tired, an’ then take his sculp. They’d take it before, only they kain’t understand a word he sez, an’ it don’t hurt ’em. Now I cum of a strong family, an’ that kind of moral suasion ain’t my best holt. I don’t reason with ’em thet way.”
“How you do it, Penn?”
“I put a ball right through the’r karkidges, an’ then I kin reason with ’em to great advantage. They understand what I mean.”
“Vat ef he pe deat, Penn?”
“That’s the beauty of my style. He kain’t resist the line of argyment I hev adopted. He appreciates its force, I allow. Don’t ye see?”
“Yaw. Kill him unt den talks mit him. Dat ish goot vay! I does him myself, pymepye, ven I kills an Injun.”
“I reckon ye’ll hev a chaince, one of these days. What ar’ they prowlin’ roun’ thet beaver-dam fur? The’r’ after my traps, the sneakin’ varmints. It’ll bother ’em some to git ’em, anyhow; I’m ruther good at hidin’ traps. But I’ll mark everyInjun in the party, an’ one of these yer days we’ll hev a settlement. Keep out of sight. Ef they see us, they’ll never rest tell they git us. Lay low!”
“All right, Penn. I dakes care. I no likes to fight mit dem unless I have to; put vat I dinks ish dis: Aff’n’ man ash vas vant to lif so long vat he can, vill not vite vor his life, ven hehafto do it, den he vas vun pig vool. I not like to vite. I pees not a vitin’ character. Put off dey cooms, I kills all of dem vat Ican. Dat ish drue vat I dells you.”
“Thet’s the right kind of talk, old man,” said Ben. “I like thet. It sounds like a man. Don’t rush into danger, but don’tdodgeit. Thet’s the way to talk it. Thet’s the way to be sensible. Kin ye see any thing of Jule yit?”
“I don’t see him noveres,” replied Jan.
“I kain’t think whar he’s hid, or what them buggers ar’ pokin’ round thet dam fer. He kain’t be thar, kin he? Ain’t one of them Injuns goin’ into the water?”
“More ash vun of ’em,” said Jan. “More ash a tozen, I dinks.”
It was true. A number of the Indians had gone into the shallow stream, and were wading toward the dam, approaching the beaver-hut nearest the shore. One of them approached the opening and climbed up on the dam. Another followed, and they commenced taking off the top of the hut. Beavers do their work well, and it was the work of some moments. At last the top was removed, and they stooped together and dragged something out. Was it a beaver? No; but Jules Damand, who had ensconced himself in the hut as a hiding-place.
They passed on to the next hut, and in like manner dragged out Bentley Morris, who had taken refuge there. It was with the deepest sorrow that the party on the mountain saw their ill-fated companions dragged from their places of refuge, amid the exultant yells of the savages, and conducted to the shore. They made no struggle; indeed, any resistance would have been useless against such a force.
“They are taken. Oh, gracious heaven, they are taken. What will be their fate?” cried Millicent.
“I kain’t tell,” said Ben. “They may kill ’em, but I don’tthink it. Jule has got the wust chance, fer he tried to kill the boy.”
“Poor Shule,” said Jan. “I pees sorry I gits mat mit him unt wrastle him town on his pack.”
“The least they kin hope fer is to be pris’ners of the Blackfeet fer years. Poor lads. I’d give anything to set ’em free. But, what kin I do;whatkin I do?”
The prisoners were dragged out into the open space and questioned angrily. Whirling Breeze stood in front of them for a while, and then, taking Jules by the shoulder, he led him into the cabin.
“He’s tryin’ to git him to tell whar we ar’ hid,” said Ben, chuckling hugely. “He’ll make a good deal out’n Jule, I reckon. Take keer not to show yerself, gal, it won’t do. Ef they catch sight of a woman, they’ll foller her till doom’sday but they’ll ketch her. But we’ve got things our own way. Ef Juleknewhe wouldn’t tell, and as he don’t know whar we ar’, hekain’ttell. So we ar’ safe two ways, don’t ye see?”
Shortly after, Jules and Whirling Breeze came out of the cabin, the Indian excited and gesticulating violently. The sound of his voice even reached the rock on which the watchers stood. But, they could not distinguish his words. At last they bound the prisoners, and placed them on horses. This done, the entire band trooped away.
In a few moments all was still, and nothing remained to show that a visit had been made but the two broken beaver-huts, a few scattered beads, with here and there a broken shaft, a feather, or a worn moccasin. To the surprise of the trapper, his horse, which had run back to the camp when the wolves attacked them, was left at liberty as well as the Dutchman’s. Millicent had sunk down upon her knees, her face buried in her hands. The man who had saved her from deadly peril, who had placed his own life in jeopardy to save hers, who had kept up his courage and hers in starvation and fatigue, and had taken deep wounds in her behalf, was a prisoner in the hands of a bloodthirsty enemy!
She never knew her love till now.
“It’s hard, gal,” said Ben, sadly. “I agree to that. But it happens often out hyar on the plains. I’m sorry. But we couldn’t help it.”
“He was a brave man,” she said, sobbing. “He saved my life twice, and now he is gone.”
“Don’t you give it up. Thar ain’t no use ofthet. Pshaw! He may git away. He’s a bright young chap, and he may get cl’ar. Let’s hope so. Blame it, he hez got a good chaince. Let’s go back to camp. Ar’ you goin’ with me, or will you stay hyar, Jan?”
“I coes mit you, Penn.”
“That’s right. Stick by me. You scratch my back an’ I’ll scratch your back. I know what they’ll do with Jule. He will hev a four-ounce ring in his nose, and be painted red, yaller and green. I wouldn’t mindthetef they won’t kill him. I’ve wore the chief’s paint myself, and it ain’t so bad to be chief in a tribe, and I judge he’ll be a chief ef he don’t make ’em too mad at him.”
They began to descend into the camp from the spot where they stood. It was difficult, more so than on the other side, and needed a quick eye and hand to accomplish the descent without the greatest danger. A fall would have been certain death. They took Millicent between them, and aided her down the perilous path, the strength and skill of Ben standing them both in good stead in a hundred ways before they accomplished the distance. The loose slate slipped under their feet, and it was with a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction that he saw his two companions safe on the solid earth below.
“Well done, miss; well done, old boy; I knew ye hed the right sort of stuff in ye. This climbin’ about among the rocks is my best holt, an’ ye kept even with me. Thar ain’t many could do it, an’ I may safely say no woman’s foot ever trod what yours did to-day, miss. It’s somethin’ to be proud of, an’ I’m raally proud of comin’ down thar. Now then, put yer best foot foremost, an’ let’s see what damage the brutes hev done in the camp.”
“You objected to my calling yousirthe other day,” said Millicent. “I must quarrel with you now, father Ben. My name is Milly.”
“Psho, now!” responded Ben, with a delighted look. “Ye don’t mean to call the old man bythatname, do ye?”
“Yes; all my hope is in you now; you must call me Milly.”
“Yer a sweet gal, Milly; the man thet couldn’t fight fer ye don’t desarve the name of man nohow. Now look yer: I’m goin’ ter save yer young man—you see ef I don’t! I’ll save him or lay my bones by the Powder river; thet’s ez good ez swore to.”
“If you could save him, father Ben, I should love you always, dearly.”
“You would? And ye called me father Ben? All right. We’ll see ef thar ain’t suthin’ yit in old Ben Miffin.”
They hurried to the hut and entered; every thing was in confusion, and it was some time before they could collect the scattered articles sufficiently to see that not one had been removed. Every thing remained intact, to the utter surprise of Ben, who knew that Blackfeet are born thieves. In all his experience, he had never known them to enter a camp and leave any thing which could possibly be taken away; and there were many little articles, such as traps, blankets, knives, hatchets, and the like, much coveted by the Indians, lying about in every direction, untouched. Ben looked about him in amazement.
“I’ve seen a good many things in my time, strange things too, but this beats all natur’,” he said.
“Vat beats?” said Jan.
“They ain’t stole athing; they’ve even left our hosses.”
“I dinks dese pe coot Injuns,” said Jan, with a grin.
“Good! Git out! Don’t be pokin’ fun at a chap in yer old age. The world is comin’ to an end; don’t say it ain’t; I know better. I went down to Selkirk last summer, an’ thar was a chap thar preachin’ thet the accounts of the world would be brung to a close jest about this time; an’ the durned critter was right—a Millerite, they called him.”
“I know vat dey pe; dey sits on a stone in der mill, mit dere little chisels, unt go chip, chip, chip on der stones; dat ish vat a Mill’rite pe.”
“Ye git out! ’tain’t no sech thing; this hyar critter was apreacher. He was a long-haired, lanky chap, with jaws ez long ez my knife. I didn’t believe him then; I do now. Blame me ef I ever hern tell of sech a thing. Come hyar, Diamond.”
The white horse, which had been straying at will about thecañon, came at his call, and rubbed his beautiful head against the trapper’s shoulder. The old man returned the caress by gently stroking the silken mane and putting it back from the ears of the noble animal.
“I kin forgive ’em a good deal, seein’ they left ye to me,” said Ben. “Ef they’d taken ye away, old hoss, I’d ’a’ gone for ’em in a way thet would hev set ’em back sev’ral files, the durned critters.”
“Penn,” said Jan, “somepoty’s a-coomin’.”
“Whar?” said Ben.
“Listen, unt you hear ’em. A horse is valking dis vay.”
“Git to kiver then. Into the hut; it’s the only place. Blame my cats ef they ain’t comin’ back.”
They plunged hastily into the cabin and barred the door. This done, they went to the side looking toward the entrance to the cañon and watched. They could hear the hoofs of the coming horse, and make out that he was advancing slowly. At last the head of the horse appeared in view, then the rider, and they saw who it was. Jules Damand! His hands and feet were tied, and he could urge his horse forward only very slowly. Both the men started out eagerly to meet him, followed by Millicent. They cut his bonds and assisted him to alight.
“Ve t’ought you vas teat,” said Jan.
“I thought you war gobbled,” said Ben.
“So I was,” said Jules, coolly, with a sidelong look at the face of Millicent. “But you see I have escaped.”
His manner was constrained, and he tried to avoid the eyes of his companions. To their questioning he made answer that the Indians had ridden out upon the prairie, and soon after entered a defile in the hills—a dark and narrow pass. In this pass he managed to make his escape, leaving Bentley in the hands of the enemy.
“Couldn’t you ’a’ managed to cut his bonds loose, or least ways to give him a wink somehow?”
“No, I couldn’t,” said he, rather sulkily. “You don’t seem over glad I got away.”
“And glad we ar’ to see ye, though ye didn’t bring the young man with ye. It does my heart good to see ye. I gave ye up fer a goner. Lordy! when Whirling Breeze gitshis claw on a white man, he ain’t got much chaince, unless the Injuns take a shine to him ez the Crows did to me. Did ye hear why they didn’t take our traps?”
“Something which the boy said; he is a son of Whirling Breeze.”
“I thought so; they ar’ alike ez picters. I’m glad I did the boy a good turn. I kain’t git it through me how Whirling Breeze ever let them traps alone. And the hosses! Who ever hern tell of an Injun leavin’ a hoss he could steal jest ez well ez not?”
“Never mind the boy; I will remember him to his cost,” said Jules.
“Where did you leave them?”
“About five miles to the east.”
“Then the pass they went into lies south of the big hills, don’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I know whar they mean to camp,” said Ben, “and thar’s goin’ to be the only place whar I stand a chaince of gettin’ that boy out’n the hands of the durned Blackfeet. It’s got to be did, if old Ben Miffin kin cipher it down. I don’t know thet I’d do it fer his sake, but fer the gal.”
“You seem to take a great deal of interest in her, don’t you?” said Jules, with a half-sneer which Ben did not at all like.
“To be sure; don’t you?”
Jules Damand laughed in a strange way, which by no means pleased Ben. Indeed, there was something in his conduct lately different from the frank and open manner which had won the sympathy of the old trapper, in St. Louis. Even the stolid German observed the change.
Millicent drew the Frenchman aside as soon as she could do so.
“Was Bentley down-hearted? Did he despair?” she asked.
“Who? Do you call him by his first name? What is he that you should take so much interest in him?”
“He is my very dear friend. You do not answer my question.” She spoke in rather a haughty tone.
“He was down-hearted indeed, and with good reason. Heis either going to a hopeless captivity or certain death, and he lacks the spirit to escape, as I did.”
“Sir!”
“Well, what now?”
“No man dare say to me that Bentley Morris fears to attempt any thing a man may do. You shall not traduce him. I believe that you hate him, though I can not imagine the cause.”
Damand slowly left her, with a savage gleam in his eyes.