Blaikie and Robbins examined the billets of bark curiously.
“There is one thing singular about this affair,” said Blaikie.
“What is that?”
“These communications, like the one sent on the arrow, are written in English, either with a red pencil or a piece of red chalk, and apparently by the same hand, for the characters appear to be alike in each.”
“There’s nothing strange in that,” said Glyndon. “Many Injuns have learned English from the numerous trappers and traders who have visited them at different times. A man as smart as this Injun Prophet must have had frequent dealings with the traders, and would be sure to get a smattering of the language.”
“The man who wrote these communications had more than a smattering,” returned Robbins. “This Smoholler is determined that we shan’t run our railroad through his country, that’s evident.”
“Yes; and he has begun by trying to frighten us away.”
“And if that don’t do it, he’ll try fighting us away next,” responded Glyndon.
“Likely; but I don’t scare worth a cent,” rejoined Robbins. “This supernatural trickery may do among the Indians, but it won’t answer with us. I’m going to survey this country in spite of Smoholler’s angels or devils—though I wouldn’t mind a closer inspection of the angel.”
“Nor I,” laughed Gardiner. “Girl or angel, she was certainly a vision of beauty. By Jove! suppose we search the cliff—we might find her there.”
He started impulsively to his feet, under the excitement of this idea.
“I will go with you!” cried Percy Vere, always ready for an adventure.
“Count me in!” added Percy Cute; the idea was firmly impressed upon his mind that wherever Percy Vere went, he must go also.
“Sit down,” said Glyndon, in his calm, deliberate manner. “You might as well attempt to find a needle in a haystack as search that cliff to-night. You’d only break your necks attemptingit, and not find anybody, either. If there’s a way up that cliff, they know how to get up and down it, and they won’t stop there until we come to look for ’em. Wait until morning.”
“They’ll be gone then.”
“They’re gonenow. If we could surround the cliff, it might have been of some use; but it joins the range beyond, as you can see, and they probably came from the back of it, through some crevice, which we can’t see from here. I’ll take a scout up that way in the morning, and see.”
“My idea is to fortify our position here to the best of our ability, and await an attack, which is sure to come. We might repulse it here.”
“You are right every way, leftenant,” replied Glyndon. “This is a good p’int. While I take a scout to-morrow, just cut down a few of these trees, and make a breastwork. We can send to Fort Walla Walla for help if we are hard pushed; but I have an idea that if we pepper a few of Smoholler’s followers, he’ll get sick of it and let us alone. The railroad’s bound to go through, and he can’t help it. Perhaps I can get a talk with him, and convince him that we are not going within a hundred miles of his village. We’ll see to-morrow. Now just sleep, all who want to. I’m going to keep an eye on that cliff for the balance of the night.”
He took his rifle and walked to the edge of the timber; but his vigilance appeared to have been uncalled-for, as the quiet of the camp remained undisturbed through the night.
In the morning, after partaking of breakfast, Gummery Glyndon prepared for his scout. During this, he was urged by Percy Vere to allow him and his cousin to accompany him.
The hunter was inclined, at first, to refuse this request, but on reflection, he consented.
“They are smart boys, both of ’em,” he told himself, “and the surveyors always lend them their rifles when they go with me. I’d rather have them any time than the soldiers—these reg’lars ain’t worth shucks in an Injun skirmish—it would be as good as three of us, and if the Injuns are thick among the hills, and I opine so, I shall want some help along. Yes, Percy, you can go.”
These last words were uttered aloud.
The two boys were quite pleased at being permitted to join in the scout, and Blaikie and Robbins readily loaned them their rifles. The surveyors were well provided in this respect as each had a breech-loading, repeating rifle, besides the old-fashioned single-barreled, smooth bore one. The boys got the single-barreled ones, of course. But they were perfectly satisfied with them, and, by much practice, had gained considerable skill in their use.
“Do you know, Percy, I have an idea,” said the elder boy, as they equipped themselves for the adventure.
“Have you? How does it feel? Tell me, so I’ll know when I have one.”
“Oh, pshaw! you are always at your joke. My idea is that Smoholler might give me some intelligence concerning my father.”
“Very likely; but do you think it safe to trust yourself in Smoholler’s power?” suggested Cute.
“Oh, no; but we might be able to hold a parley with him. I think he would prefer to arrange matters peaceably with us if he could. He must know that he can not drive back our party without considerable loss to himself.”
“Yes, and from what I have heard old Gummery Glyndon say, I should fancy that these Indians don’t like to take any risks. Do you know, Percy, I’d like to have a scrimmage with the red-skins. I think it would beat bear-hunting all hollow—Smoholler!”
Percy Vere laughed at this pun upon the Prophet’s name.
“It might not be so funny as you imagine,” he answered; “particularly if we should happen to get the worst of it, and you should have your hair lifted.”
Percy Cute passed his fingers through his shock of flaxen hair, reflectively.
“I would not like to be obliged to experiment on Professor Ike’s Restorative in that fashion,” he said. “I’m afraid the soil is too poor for another crop, even with that help. But I’m not going to let any Indian take my top-knot if I can help it. I’ll trust to my arms, while my powder and bullets last.”
“And failing these?”
“My dependence will be in my legs.”
“You are too fat to run fast.”
“Not if a crowd of red-skins was after me. The way I could get over the ground then would be a caution to bedbugs.”
Percy Vere laughed again.
“You’ll do,” he cried.
“You bet I will! Anybody’s got to get up early to get ahead of my time.”
“Are you ready, boys?” asked Gummery Glyndon, as he approached them.
“Ready and willing,” responded Cute.
Glyndon took a critical survey of the boys, as they shouldered their rifles and joined him. Besides the rifle each was armed with a revolver—the large size called “navy”—and a bowie-knife, with a keen blade, six inches in length, and a stout horn handle. A serviceable weapon for a close encounter, and also serving the purpose of a hunting and table knife. Few travelers upon the plains and amongst the mountains of the Far West are without this useful article.
“You’ll do,” said Glyndon, shaking his head, approvingly. “Come on.”
Lieutenant Gardiner followed them to the edge of the timber.
“How long do you intend to be absent?” he asked.
“I shall try to bring you in something for dinner,” replied Glyndon. “I’ve got the boys, and so I can bring in considerable game, if we are lucky enough to find it. My idea is to go through the ravine, and skirt the cliff to the left there—where the deviltry was last night—looking for Indian sign by the way, and come back by the river’s bank, if there’sfooting—if not, we’ll get on some logs and let the tide float us down.”
“A good idea,” cried Gardiner, surprised by the mention of this expedient. “I should never have thought of that. You are cunning in devices.”
“So are the Injuns,” returned Glyndon, impressively. “Take care some of ’em don’t come down on you that way while I’m gone.”
“I’ll look out for them; you’ll find quite a fort here when you come back. I hardly think Smoholler will dare attack us here.”
Glyndon took a critical survey of the situation, and shook his head in the manner he had when any thing met his approval.
“It’s a good camping-ground,” he said, “and you can hold it ag’in’ a hundred Injuns, indaylight.” He laid particular stress upon this word. “An open attack is what you can beat off without any trouble, but it’s stratagem and trickery will bother you. But we can tell more about Smoholler when I come back. If he’s got a strong party near us he can’t hide the signs of them from me.”
“Can you judge of the number without seeing them?” asked Gardiner, in some surprise.
“Oh, yes.”
“How can you do that?”
“Every man to his trade; you know your tactics, and I know mine. I have learned to trail Injuns pretty well in all these years. I couldn’t very well explain to you how I do it—there’s a knack in it that some men can never pick up. But, to us old forest rangers, there’s tongues and voices in the running water, the rustling leaves, the waving grass, and the moss-grown stones. Where an Injun plants his foot he leaves a sign, and though they do their best to hide their trail, there’s always eyes keen enough to spy it out.”
“I have heard of the wonderful skill you hunters have in following a trail,” rejoined Gardiner. “You beat the Indians in their own woodcraft.”
“The white man is ahead of the red-man in every respect,” replied Glyndon, sententiously. “He can out-run him, out-hunt him, and out-fight him! It’s the intellect does it. TheInjun’s brain-pan wasn’t calculated for any thing but a savage—but you can’t make the Peace Commissioners believe it. Why don’t they pick up all the lazy, good-for-nothing white men in the country, put ’em on a reservation, and feed and clothe them? Waugh! Come, boys, let’s see if the ‘noble red-man’ isn’t after our ha’r.”
With this contemptuous reflection, Gummery Glyndon threw his long rifle into the hollow of his arm, and walked toward the mouth of the ravine with long strides, followed by the two boys, who kept up with him with some difficulty; but their young hearts bounded with a pleasant excitement.
The rapid strides of the old guide carried him half-way across the little valley between the cliffs: then he paused suddenly, and resting the butt of his long rifle upon the ground, and leaning his hands upon its muzzle, took a critical survey of the cliff, where the apparitions had appeared upon the previous night.
“There isn’t any way to get up there on this side,” he said; “but there may be on the other.”
“There’s something up there that looks like a hole—a kind of crack in the rock,” rejoined Cute. “There may be a cave up there.”
“It is a fissure in the cliff, and may extend through to the other side,” remarked Percy Vere.
“More’n likely,” answered the old hunter. “There’s a heap of snow lies on these hills in the winter-time, and the spring thaw sends torrents down to the river, and the water bores its way through the rocks just like a gimlet. These cliffs are a spur of the Cascade Range, and when we get upon the brow of one of them, I think we can see the white peak of Mount Rainier, looking like a big icicle turned the wrong way upwards.”
“Is it very high?”
“Thirteen thousand feet, they say. It’s the highest peak of the Cascade Mountains.”
“Why do they call themCascade?”
“On account of the torrents I was telling you of. I’ll show you some grand sights when we get among the mountains, for the road is to run between Mount Adams and Mount Hood, Blaikie told me; that is if Smoholler lets us get any further. We can never get out of this valley with our present force, if he tries to stop us. Let’s push on and take the timber there to the right. It’s pretty thick at the skirt of the cliff.”
The trees fringed the cliff half-way to its summit, a thick growth of spruce, fir, and cedar, and through this the hunter and the boys made their way with some difficulty, as the ground was rocky and uneven, and the dwarf cedars and firs sprung from every crevice of rock and patch of earth.
After a toilsome tramp of an hour they turned the base of the cliff, and emerged upon the other side of it. During their progress they started quite a quantity of game. A huge elk galloped away within easy range, and deer crossed their path several times, while numerous wild-fowl arose from their perches and went whining away.
The temptation to shoot was very great, and it was as much as Glyndon could do to restrain the boys.
“’Tain’t safe,” he told them. “Wait until we go back. I have an idea that there’s Injuns round here, and a rifle-shot would bring ’em on us quicker’n a wink.”
“But oh, what a lovely shot that elk was!” cried Percy Vere. “And such splendid horns. I would like to have them for a trophy.”
“Wait—there’s more of ’em. We must look for Injuns first.”
“That’s my idea!” cried Cute. “I’d rather have a scalp for a trophy than a pair of horns.”
Glyndon smiled, grimly.
“I opine that there’s as many scalps around here as horns,” he said; “but we must take care we don’t lose our own in looking for ’em.”
“Have you seen any sign?” asked Percy Vere.
“Not yet; but I think we’re coming to it.”
They pressed forward, and as they skirted the cliff they bore upward toward its crest. Its aspect was entirely different upon this side, its slope being gradual, and the trees and bushes growing very near to the top.
The way was still difficult. Huge bowlders, some covered with moss and making little openings in the woods, and others thickly studded with fir trees, protruding like green spikes, continually obstructed their way.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Glyndon, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his brow. “This is tough work. I don’t see any signs of a trail yet—and there must be one to the top of the cliff, if I could only find it.”
Percy Cute, who was the last in the line of march, for he had a natural tendency for loitering, had diverged a little to one side when this halt was made and, though the hunter and Percy Vere were further up the cliff than he was, he had gone more to the right, in a forward direction, and suddenly came upon a kind of open way in the wood.
“Look here!” he called out. “Here’s better traveling; come this way.”
Glyndon and Percy Vere joined him.
“Why, it looks like a path—a path leading to the summit of the cliff!” cried Percy.
“It is the trail!” said Glyndon, with satisfaction.
He bent over it, and began to examine it attentively, and as he did so his features assumed a grave expression, and he shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Boys!” he said—“I’m an old fool!”
This announcement rather surprised them.
“What’s up?” demanded Percy Cute.
“Mischief! We’ve walked into a trap, and I’ve led you into it like a consumed idiot as I am.”
“How so?” inquired both boys, eagerly.
“Why, don’t you see? When we was a looking up at the cliff there must have been one of the red-skins up there watching us. They know we are here in the wood, and they are just waiting for our return to the camp to surprise us. And there’s fifty of ’em at least.”
The boys were thrown from one surprise into another.
“How can you tell how many there are of them?” asked Percy Vere, curiously.
Glyndon pointed to the trail.
“Here’s what tells me,” he answered. “These Injuns always go single file, and tread in each other’s footsteps to blind their trail, but it would take fifty of ’em, at least, to make so plain a trail. And see there, just at one side, where her foot slipped on the stone, and she stepped out of the trail, heavily, and come near falling—see that broken branch to which she clung to save herself—that tells me there’s a squaw along.”
The boys were filled with wonder.
“And the trail is scarcely cold either,” continued Glyndon, still pursuing his examination. “They passed here less than a half an hour ago, and they’re after us.”
“After us?” repeated Percy Vere, in some consternation.
“Just so,” replied Glyndon, calmly.
“Then we had better git up and ’git,” suggested Percy Cute. “Let’s get back to camp. I wouldn’t mind a scrimmage, but I think fifty against three is a leetle too hefty.”
“We can’t go back the way we came,” answered Glyndon. “They’re between us and the camp now. We’ll have to take to the river the other side of the cliff, and get back that way.”
These words revived the boys’ spirits.
“Oh! then there is a way out of the trap?” cried Percy Vere.
“I reckon; I never got into so bad a scrape but what I could find a way out of it. Let’s travel. We’ve found out enough, and the quicker we get back to the camp now the better. We know that there is a way up to the cliff’s top here, and we’ve found out that there’s a woman in the party, so we can understand something of Smoholler’s deviltry last night.”
“Yes, but this woman is a squaw, is she not?”
“Of course.”
“But the vision that appeared upon the cliff waswhite, how can you account for that?” urged Percy Vere.
Glyndon shook his head in a bewildered manner.
“I can’t account for it,” he answered, reflectively. “She was white, as you say, and if she wasn’t an angel she looked enough like one to be one. The sight of her face affected me strangely—I hain’t cried for years, and yet I felt the tears coming as I looked at her. It’s witchcraft, and this Injun Prophet just knows how to play it. I don’t wonder that the savages think he’s something great. I’d like to see him once, just to see what kind of a man he is; but I don’t want to see him just now—it might not be wholesome,” he added, dryly. “He might lift my ha’r without the formality of an introduction. It’s lucky I didn’t let you shoot at that elk when you wanted to. The sound of your rifle would have brought the whole squad down upon us.”
A peculiar cry arose on the air.
“What’s that?” asked Percy Vere; a presentiment of evil entering his mind as he listened to it.
“That’s some bird calling for its mate,” said Cute.
“Nary a bird,” cried Glyndon. “That’s an Injun. They’ve struck our trail, and they’re coming for us. Come on; we must get to the river, fast as we can travel.”
“Couldn’t we make a stand here and fight them?” suggested Percy Vere.
The old hunter shook his head.
“Madness, my boy,” he replied. “I like your spunk, but it can’t be done. I’m doubtful if we can all get back to the camp, but we’ll make a try for it. Our only hope is to make for the river upon the other side of the cliff.”
Percy Cute took off his hat, and felt of his hair, while his face assumed a rueful expression.
“I wish I had a photograph of it,” he exclaimed.
“Why so?” demanded Glyndon, in some surprise.
“Because I’m afraid that I will never see it again.”
Both the hunter and Percy Vere laughed at this sally. This dry humor in the face of threatening danger pleased Glyndon greatly.
“You’ll do!” he returned. “Good grit, both of you, andthe Injuns shan’t get you if I can help it. Come along. We can make a stand at the river’s edge, and pepper some of ’em before we take to the water.”
They pressed rapidly forward, but their path was beset with many obstacles and obstructions. They had to clamber over huge bowlders, and force their way through thickets of cedar, and fir-trees, nor were brambles wanting in the way.
The numerous signals that now sounded behind them lent spurs to their exertions, for they told them that the Indians were following in swift pursuit.
As they approached the river’s brink the wood grew more open; there were less rocks scattered about, and the trees were taller. As they emerged into this opening, with only a fringe of trees between them and the river’s bank, the report of guns rattled in quick succession behind them, and a bullet went whistling by Glyndon’s ear.
“Great Cæsar!” he cried, “this won’t do. Turn at the trees, boys, and prepare for ’em. They’ll hit one of us next thing.”
They gained a clump of fir trees that grew close together, which afforded them a shelter, and an opportunity to fire their rifles between the trunks.
They were breathless with the exertions they had made, and were only too glad to avail themselves of this temporary rest.
“Phew! that’s what I call tall traveling,” cried Cute, panting to recover his wind. “I heard the bullets rattling around me like hailstones.”
“It’s a mercy we were none of us hit,” rejoined Percy Vere. “Well, we’re lucky so far.”
“But we ain’t out of it yet,” said Glyndon, and he looked grave. “They’ll make a rush for us, and when they come, fire your rifles, and then take your pistols. Don’t stop to load; if we can’t drive ’em back on the first fire, it’s all up with us. Give ’em every shot you’ve got, and then take the river—the current will carry us down to the camp, and we can’t be far above it. Maybe they’ll hear the firing and be ready to help us.”
“Hoop-la!” exclaimed Cute, excitedly. “Here they come. I’ll take that big fellow in front.”
A wild yell rung through the wood, and a score of painted savages bounded swiftly forward. They had determined upon a desperate charge, evidently; and this mode of attack so different from the customary warfare of the red-man provoked a cry of rage from Glyndon’s lips.
“Blast ’em!” he shouted, “somebody’s told ’em just how to beat us—but give ’em Jessie! Come on, you murdering thieves!”
The three rifles cracked simultaneously, and two of the advancing warriors went down in their tracks; but Cute missed the tall Indian, the leader of the party, and the savages came on unchecked, like a huge ocean wave. Our three scouts were instantly surrounded. The two boys fought back to back, with revolver and bowie-knife in either hand.
Glyndon clutched his long rifle by the barrel and swept the Indians from his path as he fought his way to the river. He reached the bank and plunged into its turbid tide. He was loth to leave the boys to their fate, but he knew he was powerless to help them—and self-preservation is the first law of nature.
Percy Cute received a blow from a tomahawk that stretched him upon the ground; and Percy Vere found himself clutched by the strong arm of the chief—a hideous-looking object in his war-paint. The warriors drew back, as if feeling that the boy could not cope with his formidable opponent.
Percy’s weapons were struck from his hands, and he was hurled to the ground. The hideous face of the savage glared over him, and his knee was pressed upon the boy’s chest, nearly suffocating him. Percy gave himself up for lost.
The chief clutched at his throat with his left hand, brandishing his scalping-knife in his right. His fingers came in contact with the ribbon that Percy wore around his neck, and the locket was pulled forth and sprung open.
The chief’s eyes fell upon the faces it contained, and a cry of amazement burst from his lips. He sprung to his feet.
A brawny savage was approaching Cute to give him his finishing-blow.
“Hold!” shouted the chief, in a voice that was shrill and loud, like a bugle-call. “Harm him not—harm neither—they are my captives, and their lives are sacred.”
A growl of discontent greeted these words.
“Why not kill the pale-face whelps?” cried one of the braves.
The chief stamped angrily upon the ground.
“They are mine, I tell you,” he answered, in peremptory tones. “They are the faces I have seen in my visions—and the White Spirit says they are to live.”
The savages were loth to be cheated of their prey.
“Six of our braves have fallen,” replied the warrior who had before spoken, “and the gray hunter has escaped. The blood of our brothers calls for vengeance! Death to the cubs of the pale-face!”
He raised his tomahawk to smite Percy Cute.
“Monedo! Monedo!” exclaimed the chief, in that shrill tone which contrasted strongly with the deep guttural of the Indian. “Palsy the arm that strikes against the will of Smoholler!”
The warrior’s threatening arm dropped, and he retreated apprehensively from the form of the prostrate boy.
“Smoholler, do not call up your evil-spirit!” he cried, deprecatingly.
The Prophet raised his right arm loftily. Cute recovered in a measure from the effects of the blow which had felled him, and which, fortunately for him, had been given with the blunt end of the tomahawk, and crawled to Percy Vere, who rested upon one knee beneath the Prophet’s protecting left arm.
“Are these captives mine?” demanded Smoholler.
A general murmur of affirmation was the response.
“That’s right, Smoholler; you’re a brick—just you stick to us, that’s a good fellow,” cried Cute, whose spirits were equal to any emergency. “I say, Percy, our top-knots are safe yet.”
This was whispered to his comrade. Percy said nothing; he was gazing in a bewildered manner upon the strange individual who had so unexpectedly spared his life. He was at a loss to account for this sudden clemency.
The Prophet’s face, by the aid of war-paint, was made to assume an expression frightful to look upon. He was tall in figure, and appeared to possess extraordinary activity and strength, as indeed he did. Percy thought him the best specimen he had yet seen of an Indian chief. His dress displayed his tall and sinewy form to great advantage. It seemed to have been chosen with the view of producing the greatest effect upon the eye of the beholder.
His moccasins and leggings were of buck-skin, stained black, and trimmed with red fringe. His hunting-shirt was of the same material and color, and trimmed in like manner, and upon its breast was painted in red a grinning fiend, similar to the one who had appeared upon the cliff. His head-dress was the skull of a buffalo, with the horns projecting on either side of his head, and he wore it in the fashion of a helmet.
These projecting, curved horns added to the ferocity of his face, the features of which were nearly indistinguishable beneath the paint with which it was daubed. You could see that he had deep, sunken eyes, with a wild glare to them, like the light of insanity, and a long, prominent nose, and that was all.
Upon his back he wore a mantle of deer-skin, which was curiously stained and colored, and covered with innumerable figures and characters. The prominent figures were a fiend and an angel, who appeared to be engaged in an interminable conflict.
These were representatives of hisMonedos, or spirits, which his followers firmly believed he could conjure up at will to do his bidding. No wonder the boys gazed with curious eyes upon this strange leader. They could see that he was disposed to befriend them, but they could not understand why.
“The captives are mine; woe to him who seeks to harm them!” cried Smoholler, thus asserting his claim in a manner that proved he considered it settled beyond further dispute. “They shall go to the Rapids with me.”
“You’re a trump, Smoholler!” exclaimed Percy Cute, gratefully.
“There to be sacrificed to the spirits I control,” continued Smoholler.
Cute groaned.
“Oh, law! are we only going out of the frying-pan into the fire?” he muttered.
“Don’t be frightened; he does not intend to harm us,” whispered Percy Vere.
Cute shook his head in a doleful manner.
“I wish I was sure of that,” he answered.
“Well, we can only trust to his mercy.”
“Ah, yes! but if he happens to be out of it just now, and can’t get a fresh supply?” suggested Cute, lugubriously. He appeared determined to take a discouraging view of the situation. “I know the tricks of these red codgers; I’ve read about ’em in books. He has got some horrible old idol in a cave up at the Rapids, where he lives, and he makes human sacrifices to it. We shall be grilled, like a couple of innocent lambs, as we are.”
“Pshaw! don’t lose all your courage at the first reverse. You’re not goin to funk, are you?”
“Nary a funk! I’m only taking a rational view of the situation. It’s kind of tight papers now, ain’t it—you’ll allow that?”
“Perhaps; but then we can’t help it, can we?”
“No; that’s what’s the matter!”
“Besides, we can’t die but once.”
“I know it; that’s what makes it so awkward. If a chap could die two or three times he might get used to it, don’t you see?”
This reasoning provoked a smile from Percy Vere.
“Well, we must take our chances,” he answered. “Repining won’t help us. You wanted a brush with the red-skins, and you’ve had it.”
“You bet! My head sings yet where the big chap hit me. It’s lucky for me that my skull is tolerably thick. Didn’t I see stars when I went down? And I never expected to get up again. Well, we peppered some of ’em, as Gummerywould say, and that’s some satisfaction. I wonder if he got safe off?”
This question was answered by the return of four of the warriors, who had pursued Glyndon to the river’s edge, and who reported that the old hunter had swam down the stream, apparently uninjured by the bullets they had sent after him.
The Prophet turned to Percy Vere.
“What is the number of your party?” he demanded, in good English, and spoken with a purity that surprised the boy.
Percy Vere hesitated to answer this question.
“Speak!” cried the Prophet, in a peremptory manner.
Still Percy Vere hesitated.
“Speak!” repeated the Prophet, and the shrill tones of his voice arose in a menacing manner.
“Why don’t you go to our camp, and find out?” suggested Cute, in a sarcastical manner.
“Hush!” cautioned Percy Vere, fearing that the Prophet might become enraged.
“I intend to go,” responded the Prophet, coolly. “You see my force here, and you can tell if the surveyors will be able to withstand me.” He waved his hand complacently toward his assembled braves. “These are picked warriors. There is enough to drive away the surveyors. But, if more should be wanted, I can summon two hundred more from my village at the Rapids.”
Percy Vere glanced at the braves. There was at least forty of them, and each one carried a rifle. Among the friendly tribes through which he had passed he had never seen so fine a body of men. It appeared to him utterly impossible that the surveyors and soldiers could beat back this force.
The Prophet’s keen eyes were fixed upon his face, and heread what was passing in his mind by the expression of his features.
“You see how vain it is for your party to struggle against me?” he said.
“Why do you object to the survey being made?” asked Percy. “Why harm people that have no wish to harm you?”
The Prophet drew his tall form proudly up.
“This is my land,” he replied, “and I don’t want any railroad through it.”
“It will not run within a hundred miles of your village.”
“I don’t want it within a thousand. I am forming a great nation here; already our numbers count by thousands—my followers come from every tribe. I would regenerate the red-man, make him what the Great Spirit intended him to be. These woods teem with game—the water of yonder river is alive with fish. This is the red-man’s Paradise, and the white-man is the serpent who would destroy all. Settlement follows the railroad, villages and cities spring up in the wilderness, and then there is no longer any hunting-grounds left for the Indian. The game vanishes from the forest, the fish desert the running streams, and the red-man is left to starve, or become the drudge and servant of the pale-faces.”
These words were spoken with a strange eloquence, and thrilled Percy Vere as he listened to them. There was a ring of truth in them that carried conviction to his mind.
“It does appear a hard case for the red-man, I must admit,” he rejoined; “but I don’t see how you are going to help it. Government lays out these railroads, and they must be built. You can’t stop them.”
“You will see,” replied the Prophet, darkly. “Your party dare not advance after the warning I have given them.”
“Perhaps not; but they will remain where they are.”
“I will drive them into the river!”
“I do not think you can do so, even with your force. You are not more than four to one against them, and they have fortified their position by this time, and the officer, in command of the soldiers, and the surveyors are brave and determined men. A victory will cost you dear.”
These words seemed to impress the chief. He walked moodily backward and forward, for a few moments, in deep thought.
“I must not risk my warriors’ lives,” he muttered. “I promised them an easy victory, and a defeat would shake their faith in me. Already I have lost six braves, and only those boy captives to show against their loss. I must be cautious in my future movements.”
He paused in his walk before Percy Vere, and began to interrogate him again:
“Do you think, if I was to send you back to your party with the assurance that they will not be permitted to advance another foot into this land, that they would abandon their undertaking and depart?” he demanded.
“I do not,” replied Percy, promptly.
“Ha! Then you shall go to Priest’s Rapids with me. You shall see the wonders of my subterranean temple there; you shall see the chiefs of the Cayuses, Umatillas and Yakimas subservient to my will, and ready at my bidding to make this valley swarm with a red host of painted braves. You shall behold the power of Smoholler, and return to these pale-faced leaders to tell them that at my will I can raise a red war-cloud such as this land has never witnessed, and which will annihilate them when it bursts.”
“I say, Percy, old Smo’ is a little on the blow,” whispered Percy Cute.
The quick ear of the Prophet appeared to catch these words, and he shook his head disdainfully.
“The Tow-head is incredulous,” he cried, in the sententious Indian manner; at one moment speaking like a white man and the next with the imagery of the Indian.
Percy Cute opened his mouth in wonder.
“How did he know that I was ever called ‘Tow-head?’” he cried.
“Its color is enough to lead him to that conclusion,” answered Percy Vere, laughingly.
“If I get out of this scrape, I’ll have Ike dye my hair. If I escape a die here, I’ll dye in camp,” cried Cute.
It was impossible to detect through the paint upon Smoholler’s face any indication of what was passing in his mind, forit was like a hideous mask, but Percy Vere thought he was amused by his cousin’s drollery.
“Do you also doubt my power?” the Prophet demanded of Percy Vere. “Would it surprise you if I could tell you your name, and the purpose that brings you into this wilderness?”
“It would indeed,” answered the boy.
“My spirits can tell me,” rejoined the Prophet. “In my dreams the past and future are revealed to me.”
He made a few cabalistic motions with his hand, and then assumed a rigid attitude, like one in a trance, his head projected as if awaiting a message from some unseen spirit in the air.
“Whisky is said to be the most potent spirit among the Indians,” whispered the irrepressible Cute; “but I don’t see any demijohns around here.”
“Hush! you will anger him,” returned Percy Vere. “It is all a mummery, but we may as well humor it, for our lives depend upon the pleasure of this strange chief.”
Smoholler remained rigid, his eyes assuming a vacant look. His braves stood at a respectful distance, leaning upon their rifles, and watching their leader with an intent interest. These dreams of the Prophet were always fraught with singular consequences. They knew he was holding communion with his spirit, who had appeared to them, in the hideous form that was shown upon the cliff, though he generally kept himself invisible.
“Monedo! Monedo!” murmured Smoholler, in a resonant whisper.
A dead silence ensued, and the boys, despite their incredulity, were thrilled by a feeling new to them—a sort of supernatural awe.
“Master, I am here!”
These words floated above the boys’ heads in clear, distinct tones. They clutched at each other’s arms, and stared blankly around them. They stood apart with the Prophet; there was not a warrior within a hundred paces of them—not a soul from whom the voice could possibly have proceeded.
“Did you hear that?” gasped Percy Vere.
“I just did,” replied Cute, sepulchrally.
“What do you think of it?”
“It knocks me endwise. Hush! he’s going to hocus-pocus a little more.”
The boys were greatly interested now. Though they felt it was all mummery, they could not help being impressed by it.
The Prophet waved his hand in the direction of the boys.
“Reveal all you know concerning them,” he said, as if addressing an invisible spirit above his head—invisible to all other eyes but his.
Then he appeared to listen for a moment; and in this moment the boys could almost hear their hearts beat, in the intensity of their interest in the proceedings. Smoholler nodded his head.
“It is enough, goodMonedo,” he said. “Depart to the Land of Shadows, from whence I summoned you.”
Then the Prophet came out of his trance, and addressed himself to the first Percy.
“Your name is Percy Vere,” he said. “The locket you wear contains the portraits of your father and your mother. Your companion is your cousin, Percy Cute; and you are here in the wilderness seeking your father.”
To say that the boys were surprised by these words would inadequately describe the emotion that seized upon them as they listened to them—they were literally dumbfounded.
“Great heavens! this is wonderful!” cried Percy Vere. “What do you think of it?” he added, appealing to his cousin.
“I take all back; old Smo’ is by no means slow!” responded Cute. “I don’t wonder that he can bamboozle the benighted Indians, for he has completely kerflummixed me.”
The warriors, who had drawn nearer when Smoholler dismissedhis spirit, uttered an approving grunt. It may be that the Prophet had purposely availed himself of this opportunity of displaying his divining power before them.
“Is what I have told you true?” he demanded of the boys.
“It is,” Percy Vere admitted.
“Every word of it,” added Cute. “This beats spirit-rapping all hollow; your spirit comes without a rap, and his information don’t cost a rap.”
“And having told me so much, I am led to believe you can also tell me where I can find my father?” cried Percy Vere, eagerly.
The Prophet shook his head.
“I can learn from my spirit whether he is alive or dead, perhaps,” he replied; “butMonedodoes not care to seek for a pale-face; he hates the white race, as I do.”
“You have a queer way of showing it,” exclaimed Cute. “I should have been like poor uncle Ned, without any hair on the top of my head, by this time, if it had not been for you.”
“Why have you spared our lives?” asked Percy. “The Indian seldom extends mercy to a captive, I have heard.”
The Prophet laughed disdainfully.
“You have heard and read many things about the Indian,” he replied; “but they are spoken and written by the pale-faces, and there is little truth in them. I have spared your life that you may bear a message to the surveyor’s camp for me. But first you shall partake of food with me. You must feel the need of some refreshment.”
“Well, I feel peckish, and no mistake,” answered Cute. “So if you have got any fodder, just tote it along.”
“Something to eat would not come amiss,” said Percy Vere. “We intended to have been back with game to our camp before this.”
The Prophet laughed in his forbidding manner.
“Your camp will not get any game on this side of the river,” he rejoined. “A dozen of my warriors guard the mouth of the ravine, and it will be sure destruction to the pale-face who attempts to pass through it. You would have fallen into the ambush, had you not turned to the right and ascended the cliff.”