“How did you know the direction we had taken?” asked Percy, curiously.
“A sentinel posted upon the cliff gave us warning. Nothing can escape the vigilance of my scouts. They have eyes like hawks. Yonder camp is hemmed in—they must recross the river or I shall drive them into it.”
He clapped his hands and an Indian boy came bounding toward him—a boy with a graceful, lithe form, and step as bounding as that of an antelope. He was handsomely dressed, and wore the same colors as the Prophet, and was, evidently, his familiar attendant, or page.
Like the Prophet, he wore a head-dress taken from an animal, but his was the head of an antelope. The sharp horns were left, and the whole face of the animal preserved in such a manner that the boy’s face was completely covered by it, and his dark eyes glistened through the eye-holes; and so nicely was the skin fitted to his face, that he appeared to be a boy with an antelope’s head.
“Jumping ginger!” exclaimed Cute, as the boy bounded lightly forward; “what kind of a critter is that, anyway?”
“Glyndon was mistaken,” remarked Percy, thoughtfully, as he watched the Indian boy’s approach.
“In what?”
“It was his tracks we saw. There’s no squaw in the party.”
“That’s so, by king! I never thought of it before; but you are right, there isn’t.”
“Oneotah,” said the Prophet to the boy; “prepare some venison steaks for us.”
The boy made a respectful obeisance.
“Yes, master,” he replied, in tones that were singularly clear and bell-like, and then he hastened to obey.
Cute smacked his lips.
“Venison-steaks,a-la-mode de Indian!” he exclaimed. “I think I can put myself outside of some without any difficulty.”
“I must confess to being rather sharp set myself,” replied Percy. “That tramp through the thicket, and the lively fight afterward, have freshened up my appetite to a degree.”
“The food will be quickly served,” said the Prophet. “See, Nature spreads her table for us. Come.”
He led the way to a square bowlder that reared its form from the turf beside a little streamlet that went purling by on its way to the river, its clear, crystal water looking cool and refreshing. The Prophet cast himself down beside the rock, and the boys followed his example. As they glanced through the arches of the forest they saw several fires blazing in different directions, and groups of Indians clustered around them. General preparations for a meal were in progress.
The boys were impressed by the romance of the scene, and Cute conveyed his idea of it by exclaiming, rather unpoetically:
“Say, Percy, ain’t this high? You said you would like to see Smoholler, the Prophet, and here we are, invited to take anal frescodinner with him.”
The Prophet raised himself upon his elbow, and regarded Percy Vere earnestly.
“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked.
“Because I thought you might give me some intelligence of my father,” answered Percy.
“Why should you think so?”
“Because you are a man of great intelligence. I heard so before I saw you, and I am satisfied of it now.”
The Prophet inclined his head as if pleased with the compliment.
“You possess a wonderful power over the Indians, I can see—and I think few parties of hunters could cross the river, which you watch so jealously, unknown to you.”
“You are right; my spies are everywhere, my commands implicitly obeyed. Along the course of yonder mighty river, from its rocky source to where it empties into the ocean, there is no chief who is respected and feared like Smoholler. Already my warriors outnumber the fighting men of the other tribes, and daily I am gaining accessions to my ranks. They come to listen to the recital of my dreams, and they remain, satisfied that the power I profess is not an idle boast. You shall pay me a visit to Priest’s Rapids, if you like, and I will show you the germ of a growing nation. Ah! the day will come, and it is not far distant, when the tribes of thePacific Slope will be gathered into one grand confederacy which will acknowledge Smoholler as its chief.”
The Prophet’s breast heaved and his eyes dilated with a fervid enthusiasm, as he pronounced these words.
“An Indian emperor!” exclaimed Cute. “Bully for you!”
“And why not? The descendants of the Aztecs and Toltecs still roam these plains and mountains. Why should not I revive the glories of Montezuma’s empire?”
“Montezuma’s power fell before the white man’s advance, and I fear the white settlers crowd too closely upon your projected empire,” replied Percy Vere. “But it is a great idea, and that you may prosper is my sincere wish. I would like to see the red-man raised to a better position than that he now occupies. You are the best judge of his capabilities. The white hunters are too prone to regard him in the light of a savage beast—and not without some cause, either.”
“Cause? The first offense came from the white man!” cried the Prophet, fiercely.
“It may be so; but, in our particular instance, if you had let us alone, we should not have troubled you.”
The Prophet laughed in that rasping manner so peculiar to him. It was not a pleasant kind of mirth to listen to. It set Percy Cute’s teeth on edge every time he heard it.
“You had set foot upon my territory after my warning,” he cried. “You know the penalty of trespassing.”
“Ah! then you had some hand in the apparitions that appeared upon the cliff last night?”
“They came at my bidding.”
At this moment the Indian boy, Oneotah, brought them a venison steak upon a birch platter, some parched corn, and three drinking-horns. He placed the venison and corn beforethem, and then filled the drinking-horns from the streamlet.
Smoholler did the honors of this silvan table with a courtesy that won strangely upon the boys, and Oneotah stood beside him, ready to do his bidding at the slightest sign.
“What did the surveyors and the soldiers think of the apparitions?” asked Smoholler, after the boys had eaten for a while.
“They were surprised by them,” answered Percy.
“Knocked ’em higher’n a kite!” added Cute. “It was a neat piece of hocus-pocus, however you did it. Say, couldn’t you give us another squint at that angelic female of yours?”
“TheWhite Spiritwill come at my bidding,” replied the Prophet. “Would you like to see her?” he demanded of Percy Vere.
“Wherefore?” rejoined the youth.
“She might give you intelligence of your father?”
Percy started at this, but shook his head incredulously after a moment’s reflection. The Prophet appeared to divine his thoughts.
“You do not believe her to be a spirit?” he asked.
“Candidly, I do not.”
“How, then, could she appear upon the face of that inaccessible cliff?”
Percy Vere smiled.
“That is a secret best known to yourself,” he rejoined. “At the risk of offending you I must tell you that I believe you to be a skillful Professor of Legerdemain, and by the exercise of it you have gained your ascendancy over the rude minds of the Indians.”
“Far from feeling offense, I like your candor,” responded the Prophet, graciously. “My power impresses the white mind as well as the red—as you shall have proof anon. You heard the voice of my Monedo, or Spirit, in the air—you heard his voice, but his body remained invisible to your eye. How can you account for that?”
“You may have the gift of ventriloquism. My father had such a gift, for I have often heard my mother describe it.He could throw his voice into inanimate or animate objects to the great perplexity of the hearer.”
“Yes,” chimed in Cute, “and I have heard lots of funny stories about him. One day an old woman came to the house to make some inquiries, and trod, by accident, upon the cat’s tail; and he made the cat say: ‘You old fool! don’t you know any better than that?’ It nearly frightened the old woman into a fit, and she left the house in a big hurry, I tell you; and she believed to her dying day that the cat really spoke to her.”
Oneotah indulged in a musical laugh at this recital.
The boys regarded him curiously.
“Holloa! does he understand what I say?” asked Cute.
“Perfectly,” replied the Prophet. “English is as familiar to him as his own tongue.”
“And to yourself,” rejoined Percy Vere, pointedly.
“Yes.”
“Do you know I have a suspicion concerning you?”
“Indeed! What is it?”
“I think that you are a white man.”
The Prophet laughed.
“Do I look like one?” he returned.
“It is impossible to say what you look like with those hideous daubs of paint upon your face; but you talk like one—and, besides, you are too smart for an Indian.”
“Them’s my sentiments!” cried Cute. “Smoholler, you beat all the chiefs I ever heard of all hollow.”
“Smoholler is the great Prophet of the Snakes,” exclaimed Oneotah, fervidly. “Wherever his name is known it is feared and dreaded. His followers are many—his enemies perish, like the withered grass beneath the fire, when his wrath pursues them.”
“The boy is one of your converts, I perceive,” said Percy, with a smile. “He believes in you.”
“He has good cause,” answered the Prophet, sententiously. “I saved his life.”
“Oh! more than life!” exclaimed Oneotah. “If it was only death that threatened me—”
The Prophet held up his finger warningly, and Oneotah paused and bowed his head submissively.
“Oneotah is Smoholler’s slave,” he continued. “Until death, or his lips release me, I have sworn to do his bidding.”
“Enough! your bondage will not last until death,” returned Smoholler, with a significancy which the boys could feel but could not understand. “Be faithful but a short time longer, and you shall be restored to your true condition—and the spirits shall no longer torment you.”
The Indian boy appeared to be much gratified by this assurance.
“It is good,” he answered. “The heart of Smoholler is noble, he will not deceive me.”
Percy Vere was much interested in Oneotah.
“Of what tribe is he?” he asked.
“He was reared by the Nez Perces, but is not of their blood, although he thinks he is,” replied Smoholler. “There is a secret concerning his birth, which my skill has divined, and which no other appears to have suspected. He was made captive by a band of Yakimas under a chief named Howlish Wampo, who had surprised and defeated the party to which he was attached. I came up with Howlish Wampo at a critical moment in the boy’s fate, and took him away from the chief. Wampo bears me a grudge for it to this day. He would like to gain possession of the boy again, but dare not do so while I protect him. If Oneotah were to rejoin the Nez Perces he would no longer be safe from the pursuit of Howlish Wampo.”
Oneotah shuddered, and Percy Vere felt, without exactly understanding why, that there was a covert threat in these words of the Prophet.
“Multuomahcould protect me,” answered Oneotah, plaintively.
“No; not against Howlish Wampo,” answered the Prophet, impressively. “Have patience; all I have promised shall come true.”
Oneotah bowed his head again in his submissive manner.
“I am content,” he answered.
“Why does he wear that antelope’s head?” asked Percy Vere.
“To carry out his name.”
“You call him the Antelope?”
“Among my followers he is known by that name.”
“But the other name—Oneotah?”
“Is one known only to ourselves.”
“But it is his true name?”
“Yes.”
“But that head is like a mask, it hides his face.”
“For that purpose it is worn.”
Percy was somewhat surprised by this.
“You do not wish his face to be seen?” he asked.
“No; he has dangerous enemies. None here know him but myself. The shield of my power falls over him, and his influence in my camp is second only to my own. Now, our meal being ended, you shall return to your friends. You have seen a portion of my force, and know my determination. Tell the surveyors and the lieutenant that I will not permit them to advance through the ravine. They must recross the river, or be annihilated. For yourself, if you choose to return, there is a mystic cavern in yonder cliff, and together we will summon the spirits that await my bidding, and seek to learn your father’s fate. Will you do so?”
“I will,” answered Percy, resolutely.
Smoholler turned to Oneotah.
“Give me two amulets,” he said.
The Antelope boy took two little pouches, made of skin, and richly trimmed with beads, from a kind of large pocket that he wore suspended from a belt around his waist. These were attached to strings made of different-colored strips of doe-skin twisted together. Smoholler gave one to each of the boys.
“Wear these,” he said. “They are marked with my totem, and I have charmed them. They are amulets of great power, and they will preserve you from harm. No Indianwho knows Smoholler’s sign will raise his hand against the wearer of his amulet.”
“I thank you for the gift,” returned Percy Vere, “and shall always treasure it as the memento of a wonderful man.”
“And so shall I,” cried Cute. “This will be more efficacious in preserving my top-knot than Professor Ike’s Restorative, I’m thinking. Now, how shall we get back to camp? Roll a log into the river and float down upon it, or go back the way we came?”
“There is a trail along the cliff,” said Smoholler. “Oneotah will guide you a part of the way. Remember, return this evening, and I will show you a proof of my magical power that will astonish you.”
The boys promised to do so, shook hands cordially with the Prophet, notwithstanding his hideous war-paint, and followed Oneotah, who bounded lightly on before.
The way was a rough one, and they had some difficulty in keeping up with Oneotah, who sprung over the bowlders and fallen trees in the path with the nimbleness of a goat.
A toilsome tramp of an hour brought them to a beetling crag that jutted into the water, and appeared to bar all further progress in that direction. Here Oneotah paused, and the boys joined him, panting and breathless.
“Phew! how are we going to get over that?” cried Cute; surveying the impediment in dismay.
Oneotah pointed to a tall spruce tree that grew beside the crag.
“Climb this,” he said, “and from its branches you can reach the top of the rock.”
“Show! I should never have thought of that.”
“Beyond it lies your camp. The descent upon the other side is easy. You can climb?”
“You had better believe it—like a monkey! Good-by, Antelope. Shake hands before we slope.”
Oneotah extended his hand cordially, but he winced a little under the vigorous grasp that Percy Cute bestowed upon him, for the fat hands of the boy had quite a degree of strength in them. Cute laughed as Oneotah quickly released his fingers from the roguish squeeze, uttering a suppressed “O—h!”
“Did I hurt you?” asked Cute, with well-assumed innocence.
Oneotah shook his fingers, as if to restore the circulation of the blood in them, by way of answer.
“Don’t mind him,” cried Percy Vere. “He’s always at his tricks. You leave us here?”
“Yes. When you reach the top of this rock you will see your camp.”
“Good-by.”
Percy extended his hand, but Oneotah hesitated to accept it. Percy laughed.
“Have no fear,” he said. “I will not serve you as he did.”
Oneotah placed his hand in Percy’s, who uttered an exclamation of surprise as he received it.
“No wonder he hurt you,” he cried; “why your hand is as soft as a girl’s.”
Oneotah withdrew his hand quickly.
“I must return to Smoholler,” he said. “Come back, and he will show you the Black Spirit and the White. Farewell!”
With these words, he bounded swiftly away, and was soon lost to sight among the trees.
“No wonder he is called the Antelope!” exclaimed Percy Vere, as he gazed after him; “for he is as fleet as one.”
“But he ought not be called the Antelope,” rejoined Cute.
This difference of opinion, so unusual in friend and cousin, surprised Percy Vere.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“’Tain’t correct.”
“Indeed! Can you suggest an improvement?”
“Yes; I should call him the Antelopess.”
Percy Vere started.
“Why, you don’t mean to say—”
“Oneotah is a she antelope—that boy’s a girl!”
“I do believe you are right!” returned Percy Vere, with conviction.
“I know I am. Did you not notice how she squealed when I squeezed her hand—and didn’t you think her hand was as soft as a girl’s?”
“I wish I could have seen her face!” said Percy Vere, thoughtfully.
“That beastly antelope’s head hides her face, and is worn on purpose to do so.”
“And yet, I fancy, it is a handsome one—it should be to correspond with her shapely and flexible limbs; but I can’t imagine why she should wish to hide it.”
“That’s Smoholler’s doings—look at the way he had his face daubed; who could make any thing of his features through all that paint? I tell you what, I don’t think the Indians know what she is—the Prophet makes them believe she is a boy, I bet.”
“Why should he make her assume such a disguise?”
“Because he’s an old humbug! He’s up to some trickery to bamboozling these Indians, all the time; that’s the way he has made himself a great man out this way. If he had been a white man, he would have been a politician; but as he’s red, he turns Prophet—with an eye to profit, don’t you see?”
“He certainly has gained a great ascendancy over the Indians.”
“Of course he has—there’s red fools as well as white ones. He’s as smart as a steel trap—you can see that with half an eye. And she’s smart.”
“Oneotah?”
“Yes; she does just as he says, and believes in him, too, but that’s only natural, because I can just guess what she is.”
“What?”
“His daughter. She’s a chip of the old block, and helps him in his hocus-pocus conjurocus, I’ll bet.”
“You’re good at guessing, and I think your guess is correct.”
“You bet! I’m Cute by name, and ’cute by nature. Tell you what, Percy—if we could have taken off that antelope’s head, do you know what we would have found beneath it?”
Percy smiled.
“We should have found her face, of course,” he answered.
“Yes, and something else—we should have found the face of the Angel that appeared on the cliff, last night.”
This assurance surprised Percy Vere.
“Do you think so?” he cried, and his voice was strongly charged with incredulity.
“I’ll just bet my bottom dollar on it! She’s the Prophet’s White Spirit, sure as a gun.”
“I have only one objection to urge to that,” replied Percy Vere. “The face of the Angel was white—you observed that?”
This remark bothered Cute a little.
“Y-e-s,” he admitted.
“And Oneotah is undoubtedly an Indian—whether boy or girl—and his, or her, face must necessarily be red.”
“Ah, yes—but couldn’t the Prophet whitewash it for the occasion?” cried Cute, triumphantly. “How can we tell but what the Prophet may have found a lot of Lily-white or Pearl Powder in some emigrant train that his braves have plundered?”
“Pshaw! that’s too ridiculous an idea.”
“You may think so, but I don’t. I tell you, this Prophet is a sly old ’coon, and up to all sorts of dodges. And then, how do we know that Oneotah is an Indian girl?” he continued, suddenly inspired with a new idea. “She may be a white girl—stolen away from her home when she was a wee bit of a shaver—I have heard of such things, haven’t you?”
“Certainly; the histories of the Indian tribes recount many such instances. I should like to see her face, for what you have said has made me very curious about it.”
“You shall see it!”
“How?”
“When we give the Prophet our next call, I’ll contrive to throw some flip-flaps for his amusement; and I’ll flip flap over Oneotah and knock her head off!”
“Oh! you mustn’t hurt her!” remonstrated Percy.
“I don’t mean to—I’ll only knock the antelope’s head off her shoulders, and then you can see her face.”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“You just keep your eye on me, and see if I don’t. Now, let’s shin up this tree and get back to camp. We shall have plenty of news for them.”
“Yes; they will be very much surprised to see us, as I think they have given us up for lost. Glyndon has reproachedhimself with our death, I’m sure, and he will be rejoiced to see us. Come on.”
“You first.”
They began to climb the tree.
When Gummery Glyndon jumped into the river to escape from his pursuers, he still clutched his trusty rifle by its barrel, and he held fast to it, as the swift current swept him rapidly down-stream.
The Indians did not follow him into the river, but paused upon its bank, and began to hastily reload their guns. The loss they had sustained in their attack upon the hunter and the boys had rendered them furious for vengeance. But the current swept Glyndon out of sight, for the bank was thickly wooded, before they could bring their guns to bear upon him.
They discharged them, notwithstanding, in the direction in which he had gone.
Glyndon laughed as he heard the harmless discharge.
“Trying to shoot me round a corner,” he muttered. “Well, they won’t get my ha’r this time; but the boys are done for—poor lads! poor lads!”
He shook his gray head sorrowfully over this reflection. Then he saw the trunk of a tree floating in the stream ahead of him. He struck out for it, gained it, and ensconced under its further side, floated with it down the stream. As he went with the current, he made good headway, and soon reached the camp of the surveyors.
A shout from the bank announced that he was observed and recognized as he approached, and the members of the party clustered upon the bank to receive him, as he guided his log toward the shore. At this point the river was fordable, and the banks were sandy and sloping. His feet touched bottom as he came to the sand-bar that stretched across theentire width of the stream, and he allowed the log to float away, and walked ashore.
“What luck?” demanded Lieutenant Gardiner, as the gaunt figure of the old hunter drew near.
“Bad!” answered Glyndon, laconically; and he briefly related to Gardiner, Blaikie and Robbins the particulars of his scout.
All were of his opinion that little mercy would be shown to the boys by their captors, and they deeply lamented their untimely fate.
“Do you know what tribe these Indians belong to?” asked Gardiner.
“They’re Smohollers, I reckon,” replied Glyndon.
“Did you see him with them?”
“That’s more than I can say, for I don’t know him. So I might have seen him without knowing it. There was a chief at the head of ’em, and he acted differently from Injun chiefs in general, for he charged right down upon us, without stopping to count the cost, and that was what flaxed us—for they just drew our fire, and were upon us without giving us a chance to reload; and there was too many of ’em for a hand-to-hand fight. I managed to get out of it, but I had to leave the boys. There was no help for it.”
The old hunter uttered these words in an exculpatory manner, as if he thought himself responsible, in a measure, for the misfortune that had befallen them.
“This attack looks as if the Indians were determined to prevent us from proceeding in our survey,” remarked Robbins.
“That ain’t the worst of it,” rejoined Glyndon. “They ain’t a-going to allow us to stop here long. So just look out for a brush. I hope you have been fixing things here, leftenant,” he continued, turning to Gardiner.
“Come and see,” replied the lieutenant, who wished to have the old hunter’s opinion on the measures he had taken for the protection of the camp.
A semicircular breastwork, composed of felled trees and the loose large stones lying about, had been constructed, running from the river around the grove and back to the river again, completely guarding all approach to the camp, exceptby the river, which was considered to be protection enough in itself.
Sentinels were posted at different points, and the utmost vigilance observed. The quick discovery of Glyndon’s approach was a proof of this; for the river was watched as well as the ravine.
That there was an approach to the camp over the precipitous cliff to the right was a circumstance that Lieutenant Gardiner was yet to learn; not that it made his position more insecure, as his breastwork was some distance from the cliff.
Within the grove, and the breastwork, were the animals and the implements of the party, and Ike Yardell, seeing the probability of remaining there several days, had called upon Corney Donohoe and Jake Spatz to assist him in building a fireplace of stones; a substantial affair that would assist his culinary efforts.
Gummery Glyndon expressed himself highly satisfied with the condition in which the camp had been placed during his absence.
“Smoholler can never drive us out of this,” he said. “He don’t care much for the lives of his men, that’s certain, but he can’t take this place in a single charge, and it will cost him pretty dear to try it.”
“Have you any idea of the force under his command?” asked Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Nigh onto fifty, I should judge by the looks of his trail.”
“We can drive off double that number.”
“Yes; but I have an idea that he has a lot more coming. He can set all the other tribes round here against us; and if he should muster three or four hundred warriors in front of us, it would make things look squally for us.”
“It would, indeed. They might flank us on the other bank of the river, and so hem us in, and starve us into submission. But I have an idea that this obstruction will only be temporary, and that we shall be permitted to proceed.”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Glyndon, decidedly. “We have got to whip these Injuns and drive ’em away—that’s the only way that we shall ever ever get rid of ’em. And we must have some help to do it.”
“What help can we get?”
“Play the old game here, and set Injuns to fighting Injuns. Send for a war-party of the Nez Perces.”
“Will they fight against this Indian Prophet?” asked Gardiner, doubtfully.
“They’ll fight against the Yakimas, Umatillas, and Cayuses, who are likely to side with him, and if they ’tend to them, we can take care of the Smohollers.”
“But where can we find a party of these Nez Perces?”
“There’s generally some of ’em at Fort Walla Walla, as their country is the other side of the Blue Mountains. I’m thinking it might be our best plan to go back to the fort, and strengthen our party for a fresh start.”
“Or you might go to the fort and see what you could do in the way of obtaining a reinforcement among the friendly Indians,” suggested Gardiner. “I am confident that I could hold this position until you return. Let us consult the surveyors, and get their ideas upon the subject.”
“Very good—two heads are better than one. Let’s have a council of war on the subject. Holloa! What’s up now?”
This question was caused by a sudden commotion in the camp, in the direction of the river. They hurried to the bank. A young Indian, whose dress proclaimed him a chief, was riding his horse across the river. He had proclaimed himself a friend to the sentinels, and was suffered to advance unmolested.
“It is Multuomah!” exclaimed Glyndon.
“Do you know him?” asked Gardiner.
“Like a book!—and he’s just the man we want, for he’s a war-chief of the Nez Perces.”
“Good! He is welcome.”
The young chief crossed the river, and rode up to the assembled group that awaited his coming. He dismounted with an easy grace, and in a manner that denoted his belief that he was among friends.
“How d’ye do, Multuomah?” cried Glyndon, extending his hand, cordially.
The young chief recognized him pleasantly.
“The Gray Hunter!” he returned. “It is good. He can tell these white men that Multuomah is their friend.”
“That’s so. You are the youngest chief of the Nez Perces, but you are the smartest one of the lot.”
Multuomah inclined his head in a gratified manner at this praise. Lieutenant Gardiner and the surveyors gazed upon him curiously. He was a fine specimen of the warlike nation to which he belonged—the powerfulSahaptintribe. The name ofNez Perceswas given to this tribe by the early French voyageurs, as a custom once existed among them of wearing a bone ring in the cartilage of the nose, which was pierced for that purpose, henceNez Perces, or in English Pierced Noses; and though the custom is discontinued, the name still remains.
Nor are they the only tribe of the Indians of that section who have lost their original name in the fanciful ones bestowed upon them by the voyageurs, who were the first explorers of the great North-west. ThePen D’Oreilles(Ear-rings),Cœur D’Alenes(Needle-hearts), still exist.
Multuomah was of medium hight, slender in figure, but as straight as an arrow, and gracefully proportioned. His face, undisfigured by war-paint, was eminently handsome, and his features wore a pleasant expression. His eyes were dark and keen as an eagle’s, and his hair was long and flowing, and as black as jet. His complexion was not unlike bronze in its hue, clear and vivid, and not that dull chocolate hue, so common among the Oregon tribes.
He wore a hunting-shirt, leggins, and moccasins of deer-skin, all richly ornamented with fringe and beads; and an eagle’s feather was fastened in the band that kept his long black hair from his eyes. He was armed with rifle, tomahawk, and scalping-knife.
His age could not have been over twenty-five. Take his appearance altogether, he was one of the finest specimens of the red-men to be found at the present day. He had mixed with the white men, and learned some portion of their civilization without becoming contaminated by their vices.
“Is Multuomah alone?” asked Glyndon.
“No,” answered the young chief, “there are a hundred warriors awaiting his bidding yonder.”
He pointed across the Columbia with a dignified action, but some little pride mingled with his dignity, as if he felt that his consequence would be increased by the announcement of the force at his command. Nor was he deceived in this, for his hearers received the intelligence with great satisfaction.
“Good!” cried Glyndon. “We can wipe the Smohollers out in no time now.”
“Is Smoholler near?” asked Multuomah, eagerly.
“Well, he just is. His head-quarters are in yonder cliff, and he has regularly besieged us here.”
“Why should he trouble you? Smoholler seldom makes war—though he will always fight stoutly in self-defense.”
“He don’t like the idea of the railroad going through this territory. These are the surveyors, Multuomah, Mister Blaikie and Mister Robbins, and this is Lieutenant Gardiner, from Fort Walla Walla.”
The young chieftain shook hands cordially with all three, as they were introduced to him.
“How many braves has Smoholler with him?” he asked, continuing the conversation with Glyndon.
“Nigh on to fifty, as near as I can calculate from their trail; but me and the boys sent a few of ’em under.”
“How was that?”
Glyndon briefly described his scout and skirmish with Smoholler’s party.
“The Prophet’s men fight bravely, I have been told,” rejoined Multuomah.
“You have never had any brush with them?”
“No.”
“Then you have got a chance now.”
Multuomah shook his head gravely.
“I doubt if my braves will fight against the Prophet,” he said; “though I have brought them here for that very purpose.”
These words greatly excited the interest of his hearers.
“Then your men believe in the mystical power of this red Prophet?” asked Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Yes; few Indians in this country doubt the power of Smoholler,” replied Multuomah. “They dread the spirits that come at his bidding.”
“But you—what do you think?”
Multuomah shrugged his shoulders in a dubious manner.
“I do not know what to think,” he responded.
“Ah! I see; you would like to doubt him, but can not exactly divest your mind of a certain belief in his supernatural powers. That is not to be wondered at, for he has shown us some astonishing sights since we have been here. I think it’s all trickery, but I can’t tell how it is done.”
Multuomah looked troubled.
“You have seen his spirits?” he asked.
“Yes; black and white. Why should he choose those colors, when he is red?”
“One is the Spirit of Evil; the other the Spirit of Good.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“Never; but I have been told by those who have. It is by means of these spirits that he has gained so great a power. His followers come from all tribes, and their belief in him is great. If I was to attack him, and he should make his spirits appear before my braves, they would fly in terror; and yet there are no braver warriors in all my nation.”
The four white men, who were listening to him, exchanged glances.
“This complicates the situation,” remarked Blaikie. “I don’t see as this reinforcement will, under the circumstances, be of much use to us.”
Gardiner and Robbins were of his opinion; but Glyndon took a more favorable view of the matter.
“We must make it of use to us,” he cried. “We are strong enough, with Multuomah’s band, to just gobble this Prophet, and I’m going to do it. The boys may be alive yet, and we must rescue them.”
“But if the chief and his braves dare not fight against Smoholler?” urged Lieutenant Gardiner.
Multuomah crested his head proudly.
“I dare fight against him, and I will,” he rejoined. “Multuomah will fight against Smoholler and all his spirits, to gain Oneotah!”
“Oneotah?”
“A squaw?”
These interrogations came from Glyndon and Lieutenant Gardiner. The surveyors smiled and exchanged glances.
“Here’s a woman in the case—away out here in the wilderness,” said Blaikie. “Who would have thought it?”
“Why not? There are women everywhere,” replied Robbins.
Multuomah had nodded his head affirmatively to the questions put to him, and Glyndon now demanded:
“Who is Oneotah, chief?”
“She is the White Lily of our tribe,” answered Multuomah, “and she was my promised bride.”
“One of your race?”
“No; in her childhood she was captured from the Yakimas by one of our chiefs, who reared her as his own daughter. He named her Oneotah, but, from her fair complexion, she was commonly called the White Lily. She grew to the age of seventeen in our village, and among the many suitors who sought her smiles, her heart gave me the preference.”
“I don’t wonder at that. You are just the chap to take a girl’s eye.”
“Our wedding-day was fixed, when she accompanied her adopted father, Owaydotah, upon a hunting expedition. His party was surprised by a band of Yakimas, under the chief Howlish Wampo, and Owaydotah was killed, and Oneotah carried away a captive.”
“That was a bad job for you.”
“I gave her up for lost, for I knew that Howlish Wampo would make her his wife, inflamed by her great beauty. And he would have done so, had not Smoholler taken her from him.”
“What did he do with her?”
Multuomah shook his head sorrowfully.
“I can not tell,” he replied. “What I know was told me by a Yakima warrior whom I captured a week ago; but he could not tell me what has befallen Oneotah since Smoholler seized upon her.”
There was a touching plaintiveness to the tone of the Multuomah’s voice as he pronounced these words, and his hearers could but sympathize with him in his bereavement.
“Why, this is a kind of turn-about affair,” observed Glyndon. “First, you take the girl from the Yakimas, and then they retake her, and then the Prophet puts his finger in the pie. But is the girl really a Yakima?”
“No, I think not.”
“I’m glad of that, for I like you, and I don’t like the Yakimas. They’re mean cusses, and I’d like to see ’em all wiped out. What nation do you think the girl did belong to?”
“Her face was so white that I have often thought she was a daughter of the pale-faces,” answered Multuomah.
This reply surprised them all.
“How can that be?” demanded Glyndon.
“She may have been made a captive when a child by the Yakimas in one of their expeditions, either from a settler’s cabin or from some emigrant train,” rejoined Multuomah. “She understood English when she was brought into our village, and she taught it to me when we were children together.”
“That accounts for the ease with which you speak it,” remarked Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Yes.”
“Your knowledge of our language surprised me, but I can easily understand it now.”
Gummery Glyndon had grown very thoughtful.
“We must take this girl from him in spite of his medicine—whetherit’s quackery or the genuine article,” said the old guide, as if coming out of a dream.
Multuomah’s dark eyes glistened.
“I came here for that purpose,” he answered. “I am willing to dare the Prophet’s power—but my braves—”
“You can’t count on them, eh?”
Multuomah shook his head doubtfully.
“They will not lift a hand against the Prophet,” he replied.
“We can fix that. They wouldn’t object to surrounding the Prophet’s party, and let us bring him to terms. Just explain to ’em that you want your gal, and that we are going to help you get her. That will make ’em feel all right, I’m thinking.”
“They will gain more confidence when they know the soldiers will aid them. They do not fear Smoholler’s braves, but his spirits.”
“Tell ’em they can not injure the white men.”
“That is their belief.”
“So much the better! Holloa! what’s broke loose now?”
This exclamation was drawn from Glyndon’s lips by a shout from one of the sentinels who guarded the breastwork. This shout was taken up by the other soldiers.
“Good heavens! the boys have escaped!” cried Lieutenant Gardiner, excitedly.
Glyndon, usually so placid, found his excitement contagious.
“Great Jericho! it’s more’n I expected!” he exclaimed. “I never thought to set eyes on ’em again.”
The shout of welcome at their appearance proved the regard in which the boys were held by the soldiers. They approached, rifle in hand, for their weapons had been restored to them by Smoholler when he suffered them to go free, and were overwhelmed with eager inquiries by Glyndon, Lieutenant Gardiner, Blaikie and Robbins.
Percy Vere recounted their adventure with the Prophet, and his narrative was embellished by supplementary remarks from Percy Cute, as he proceeded. Thus they told the story between them.
Their hearers listened to them incredulously; but that theboys stood before them, a living evidence of the truth of their story, they would not have believed it.
“The Prophet let you go?” cried Glyndon.
“As you see,” answered Percy Vere.
“Scot free,” supplemented Cute; “and give us these gimcracks to protect us from all Indians generally. Nice, ain’t they?”
“Amulets!” ejaculated Glyndon, examining them curiously.
“Yes, with the Prophet’s tetotum on ’em.”
“Totem, you mean.”
“Yes, that’s it; and we are to tote’em wherever we go, to keep us from harm, according to old Smo’.”
“Well, this just beats me,” cried Glyndon, in a bewildered manner. “Six of their braves sent to grass, and they let you off. That ain’t according to Indian custom, and I can’t understand it.”
“Smoholler’s customs are different from ours,” observed Multuomah.
“I should say so!”
Percy Cute took a comprehensive survey of the young chief.
“Holloa! have you taken this young chap prisoner?” he inquired.
“No; he is a friend. This is a Nez Perce chief—Multuomah.”
Cute offered his hand cordially to the chief.
“How are you, Multum-in-parvo?” he exclaimed.
Multuomah smiled and shook hands with Cute, who, with his irrepressible spirit of mischief, gave him his favorite hand-squeeze; but Cute was glad enough to withdraw his fat fingers, and dance away with a wry face. The answering squeeze had proved too much for him.
“He’s an Odd Fellow!” he remarked, as he straightened out his cramped fingers.
“How do you know that?” asked Percy Vere, enjoying his discomfiture.
“’Cause he’s given me the grip.”
“Served you right!” cried Glyndon. “No tricks upon travelers. And so you had a long talk with the Prophet?” he added to Percy Vere.