It was Bad Eye, the old head chief of the Crows, who first interrupted the belligerent conversation between Silverspur and his father.
It should be remarked here, that the interview took place in the edge of a belt of timber, near a creek, and that nearly all had dismounted, some tethering their horses, and others allowing them to graze at will. Among those who had dismounted were the Indian girl and Bad Eye.
The chief had been gazing a long time at Dove-eye, with an expression of interest that he did not attempt to conceal, and she, without meeting his fixed gaze, had glanced at him, now and then, wonderingly and strangely. He had drawn nearer to her, and his interest increased the longer and the closer he looked at her. At last he spoke, uttering but one word:
“Kate!”
The girl started and turned around quickly. The chief’s arms were extended, and, with a wild cry, she rushed into them.
It was this that interrupted the conversation of Fred and his father, and brought a new element into the scene.
“How is this?” exclaimed Colonel Wilder, turning around, with his eyes open wide. “What is the matter with the chief? You seem to have a rival here, Fred, or something else.”
The young man, who was as much at a loss as his father was, discreetly said nothing.
The chief, who was holding Dove-eye in a close embrace, released her, but held her hand. The Crow warriors were stolidly silent, because it was their custom to betray no emotion. The dragoons were silent, because they had not been ordered to speak, and they sat quietly on their horses, wondering what it all meant. Fred Wilder was silent, because he believed that he had better not speak, and that any turn of affairs could not be for the worse. Old Blaze was silent, because he implicitly believed in Silverspur’s ability to talk himself out of any scrape. Jose was silent, because he understood nothing of what was going on. Bad Eye and the Indian girl were silent, because their emotion had not yet found vent in words.
Colonel Wilder, in fact, was the only noisy man in the party. His anxiety concerning his son, and his curiosity to learn the meaning of this last demonstration, impelled him to ask the chief a multitude of questions, which the latter seemed to be in no hurry to answer.
“Do you remember Paul Robinette?” asked Bad Eye, at last, and speaking in very good English.
“The fur-trader? Yes; I knew him well.”
“You may remember that he was killed and scalped, on the plains, by the Blackfeet, who carried off his daughter.”
“Yes; but you don’t mean to say that this girl is Flora Robinette? She was found, and is married to Captain Benning—though I don’t know why they call him captain. He has a trading-post on the other side of the mountains, and she is living there with him.”
“Precisely so. After Silverspur rescued Flora Robinette from the Blackfeet—”
“Who is Silverspur?” interrupted the colonel.
“Your son—Fred Wilder.”
“Savage in name, as well as in nature. Go on.”
“After he rescued her from the Blackfeet, she was again captured by the Arapahoes. In seeking her among them, he was badly hurt, and his life was saved by this girl. But I am making a long story of it. Flora Robinette had a sister.”
“That is news to me. You seem to be coming to the point.”
“The truth is I have commenced at the wrong end of my story, and must begin again. Did you ever see Paul Robinette’s brother?”
“I saw him once, many years ago. He disappeared mysteriously.”
“I am he. I had good cause, as I believe, to forsake my brother; but I will not bring up old grudges now. To be revenged upon him, I took with me his child, a daughter, Flora’s elder sister. She lived with me among the Crows, several years; but one day she was missing, and I could find no trace of her from that day to this. I have found her to-day. I called her by the old familiar name. She remembered it, and she knew me, as I had recognized her.”
“Very romantic! If I was an author, I would write a tale.”
“I was going to say, when I commenced my story at the wrong end, that when Flora was finally safe, I informed her of my relationship, in the presence of your son and Captain Benning, and told her that she had had a sister; but I did not then expect that I would ever see Kate.”
“Very good. And you are chief of the Crows, and she will be a great lady in the tribe, no doubt. I am very glad you have found her, and hope you will keep her. We may as well camp here and get something to eat. Lieutenant Rawlings, dismount your men, and form a corral. I hope, Fred, that you will now remain with us. If the Arapahoes come, Bad Eye will not be likely to give up his niece to them, and the Crow warriors will take an interest in her, I am sure.”
As Colonel Wilder had so summarily dismissed the subject, no one attempted to revive it, and all busied themselves in preparations for encamping. Hardly were these completed,when some Crows, who had been looking for game in the vicinity, announced that they had discovered a large herd of buffalo, on the plain at a little distance from the camp. All were excited by this intelligence, especially Colonel Wilder.
“This is glorious!” he exclaimed. “Now we will have a grand surround!”
The rest of the party, both white and red, were as eager for the hunt as was Colonel Wilder, and a grand surround was determined upon.
Leaving a sufficient number of dragoons to guard the camp, Bad Eye led the rest of the party to the buffalo ground. The prospect of a surround was so exciting, that every other topic was laid aside, and all pressed forward eagerly to join the chase.
Under the direction of the Crow chief, his warriors taking the lead, the herd was gradually surrounded, the hunters keeping carefully out of sight of the game, until the buffalo were inclosed in a great circle, more than a mile in circumference. Then, at a signal passed from one to another around the circle, all began to move toward the center, slowly closing in upon their expected victims. When they were perceived by the buffalo, the excitement of the sport commenced, and increased rapidly from that moment. Seeing their natural enemies on one side, the frightened animals went at a gallop to the other, where they were driven back by the sight of more men. Then they rushed frantically from one part of the plain to another, only to be met on every side by a steady wall of their foes, who had drawn so close together that they presented the appearance of a line of battle.
As a last resort the herd collected in the center of the circle, and seemed to be searching for a weak point, at which they could break through the line that surrounded them. If such was their intention, they were too late in carrying it into execution; for their enemies, at a given signal, dashed down upon them in a mass.
Right into the midst of the herd went the red and white riders, each singling out his victim, and endeavoring to keep at his side until a suitable opportunity should present itself to deliver a death-shot. The maddened buffalo started off at a tearing gallop, and the scene that followed possessed sufficientdanger and excitement to charm the wildest and most reckless hunter. Nothing could be seen, for some time, but the immense mass of animals, surging forward and heaving like the waves of the ocean, and nothing could be heard but the bellowings of rage or pain, and the shouts and shots of their slaughterers.
In such améleethe men inevitably became separated from each other, and each for himself was a law of necessity. If a man sought to keep on the outskirts of the herd, he might find himself within it the next moment, and he might be carried with it until some fortunate chance should give him an opening to escape. If he was a greenhorn, or a poor horseman, or if any accident should befall himself or his horse, he might be thrown down in the midst of the frightened herd, and perhaps trampled to death. The sport was as dangerous as it was exciting; but none held off from it on account of the danger.
Colonel Wilder, who was an ardent sportsman, and who, notwithstanding his years, believed himself to be equal to the best, showed a skill and prowess that were surpassed by none on the ground. Dashing at once into “the thick” of the herd, he selected a fine cow, and, watching his opportunity, delivered a death-shot that dropped her “in her tracks.” He then ranged up alongside of a large bull; but his horse swerved as he fired, and the animal was only wounded. The bull turned and charged furiously, the colonel’s horse snorted and reared, the saddle-girth burst, and he fell to the ground, while the horse galloped frantically away with the herd.
It was a perilous situation, and Colonel Wilder fully appreciated his danger. The herd had gone by, and there was no fear that he would be trampled to death; but the wounded bull had lowered his head for a charge, to which no effectual resistance could be opposed, and it was useless to attempt to escape.
As the buffalo charged, the colonel struck at him with the butt of his rifle; but the weapon broke over his shaggy frontlet, with no more effect than the breaking of a straw would have had. The bull struck the barrel, however, between his horns, and Colonel Wilder was thus saved from serious injury, although he was knocked down and badly bruised.
As the bull lowered his head for a charge that would finish his prostrate antagonist, Colonel Wilder gave himself up for lost. He closed his eyes, and mentally ejaculated a prayer for help.
Help came, as timely as it was unexpected. There was a shot, and the bull never reached his foe. The bullet had struck him just behind the fore-shoulder, and had penetrated his heart.
The colonel looked up, and his eyes were fastened on the dying struggles of the buffalo. The immense beast, with blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils, with his tongue protruding, and with the glaze of death already over his bloodshot eyes, seemed determined to “stand his ground” to the last. As his huge body swayed from side to side, and he found himself unable to move a pace from where he stood, he planted his feet further apart, and stamped impatiently, as if angry at the growing weakness which it was impossible to shake off. But all his efforts were in vain. Death was too strong to be resisted by his brute force and tenacious will. The purple blood gushed in a torrent from his mouth, the huge carcass swayed more heavily from side to side, the failing limbs shook in a final effort to support the weight of the body, the whole frame was seized with a convulsive quiver, and at last, with a choking gasp, the animal fell over, dead, silent, motionless and stiff.
Colonel Wilder gave a sigh of relief when the struggle was over, and looked around for his preserver. Dove-eye was standing near him, with a rifle in her hand, watching the death of the buffalo with great composure. As she was about to walk away, the colonel rose and addressed her:
“I am much obliged to you, sir. You have saved my life. Ah! is it you, young woman? Excuse me; my eyes are a little dim. Did you really fire that shot?”
Dove-eye smiled and nodded.
“You must be an excellent marksman—woman, I mean. The variation of an inch would have left strength enough in that animal to kill me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not at all. I am bruised and scratched a little, perhaps; but that is of no consequence.”
The position of Colonel Wilder was a little embarrassing. This girl, whom he had treated so lightly and contemptuously, had saved his life, and he, man of the world as he was, did not know what to say to her. Fortunately his son rode up at that moment, and, in response to his inquiries, the colonel related the adventure.
“Yes, it was very well done,” he said, as he noticed the admiring and affectionate glance that Fred bent upon Dove-eye. “She is accustomed to that sort of thing, no doubt; but that does not lessen my obligation. I have some presents that I brought for the Arapahoes, and I will give her something.”
Fred blazed up, and would probably have made a sharp reply, if he had not been interrupted by the Crow chief, who came with the information that there were some strange Indians within sight of the camp.
A horse was procured for Colonel Wilder, and another for Dove-eye, and all set out toward the camp, except those of the Indians who were engaged in collecting the meat, and they soon followed.
“Father,” said Fred, as they rode together, “you ought not to speak of offering presents to Kate Robinette. My wife, that is to be, does not care for beads and red cloth.”
“Kate Robinette? Ah! I had forgotten that story. Do you really believe it? Well, it is no matter. She is a savage, and always will be.”
“She is not a savage. If she were, I am sure that she will not always be.”