“Yes.”
“Did you ask him about your father?”
“I did.”
Glyndon became interested.
“Well, what did he say? Could he tell you any thing about him?”
“Not at that time; but on my return I expect to receive important disclosures from him.”
“Return?” cried the old hunter, in astonishment. “Why, you don’t calculate to go back to him, do you?”
“Such is my intention.”
“Great Jericho! ain’t you satisfied with getting off this time, without trying it again?”
“I have the Prophet’s word that no injury will befall me.”
Gummery Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“You can’t trust to an Injun’s word,” he said. “They’re lyin’ cusses, the whole grist of ’em.”
“You can trust Smoholler’s word,” interposed Multuomah. “He will not harm the boys.”
“I agree with the chief,” remarked Lieutenant Gardiner. “The very fact of his having set them at liberty now is proof enough of that.”
“There’s something in that,” Glyndon admitted. “But didn’t Smoholler send us some message, Percy—some intimation to git up and git?”
“He certainly did,” replied Percy Vere. “He appears to be resolute that the survey shall not proceed, and he will force us to recross the river, he says, if we do not do so of our own accord. He told me that he should summon more of his warriors from his village at the Rapids, and, if necessary, he would call upon the surrounding tribes to aid him.”
“And they will do so,” said Multuomah.
“A pretty hornet’s nest we appear to have got into here,” cried Blaikie.
“And some of the hornets will get snuffed out when they come buzzing around us,” responded Glyndon. “We can put an extinguisher on this Prophet, first thing he knows. We’ll bottle him up before he can get any help from his own village, or anywhere else. But now, tell me, did you see any squaw with the Prophet?”
“Yes—a squaw called Oneotah!” added Multuomah.
“There, I told you Oneotah was a girl!” cried Cute.
“She is there then?”
This question sprung simultaneously from the lips of Glyndon and Multuomah.
“There is a singular-looking Indian boy there, wearing an antelope’s head, which completely conceals his face, whom the Prophet calls Oneotah,” replied Percy Vere; “and I have reason to believe that this pretended boy is a girl.”
“I’ll bet my bottom dollar on it!” exclaimed Cute. “She’s got the nicest, softest little fingers that I ever got hold of—”
“You did not see her face?” inquired Glyndon.
“No; the antelope’s head conceals it utterly—indeed is worn for the purpose of a disguise, the Prophet himself admitted to me.”
“Does she appear to be under any restraint there?” Multuomah now asked, with eager anxiety.
“None whatever. She accompanied us nearly to the camp here, and could have placed herself under its protection, if such had been her desire.”
Multuomah’s features assumed a troubled expression.
“She is there, then, of her own free will?” he asked, huskily.
“Apparently. Indeed, she seemed to be greatly attached to the Prophet.”
“Attached!” stammered Multuomah; and something that sounded very much like a smothered groan burst from his lips.
“He saved her from some great peril, I judge from some words between them that I overheard,” continued Percy Vere; “and, now I think of it, it appears to me that your name was mentioned.”
“By him?”
“No, first by her. Multuomah, she said, could protect her from some threatening peril.”
There was none of the fabled stoicism of the Indian in the young chief as he listened to these welcome words. No white lover ever displayed a more trembling eagerness to learn further intelligence of his sweetheart.
“Ah! she thinks of me—she speaks of me!” he cried. “Smoholler can not then have made her his wife?”
“His wife?” echoed Percy Vere, surprisedly. “No, I do not think there is any such relationship existing between them. The tie that binds her to him appears to be one of gratitude. As I understand it, he appears to have saved her from a ferocious chief of the Yakimas named Howlish Wampo. I remembered the name because it is such an odd one.”
“And I have good cause to remember it too,” said Glyndon, “for he is the head chief of the murdering tribe that destroyed my home. I heard his name at the time—he was a young chief then, about the age of Multuomah here. It grows upon me—I’ve got the idea into my head, and it sticks there, that Oneotah is my daughter.”
This was a revelation that greatly surprised all, and it made Percy Vere thoughtful.
“She spoke uncommonly good English for an Indian, I thought,” he said; “but so did the Prophet, for that matter.”
“Tip-top!” affirmed Cute.
“I think the Prophet would give up this girl, if he thought she was your daughter,” continued Percy Vere.
Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“I have my doubts about that,” he answered. “These Injuns ain’t so fond of giving up any thing they have once got hold of. But I do think we can compel him to give her up.”
“You do?” cried Multuomah, eagerly.
“I just do! There’s one kind of logic that appeals irresistibly to an Injun, and only one—and that is force. No offence to you, Multuomah. There’s good and bad among Injuns, pretty much as there is among white men. Human nature is about the same, no matter what the color of theskin may be. I think we can get this Smoholler into a tight place, and make him squeal!”
“I am of that opinion also,” observed Lieutenant Gardiner; “but I would like to have your ideas upon the subject, as an old Indian-fighter. You know the best tactics to adopt against these savages.”
By common consent Glyndon found himself constituted the leader of the party. He accepted the position as a matter-of-course, and proceeded to develop his plan of action.
“Well, you see, Leftenant, my idea is just this,” he said: “Smoholler doesn’t know of the arrival of Multuomah and his Nez Perces, and so he doesn’t anticipate any attack from us. He’s got a party outlying at the mouth of the ravine yonder, probably a dozen braves, to keep an eye on us, but his main force is on the cliff, where, I opine, there’s some kind of a cave.”
“Yes; he told me that there was a mystic cavern in the cliff,” remarked Percy Vere.
“I thought so. There’s a way up to the top, as the trail we found plainly shows. Now you can go to him again, my boy, as he might tell you about your father, and as soon as it gets to be dark we’ll move quietly through the ravine, surprise his scouts, and surround the cliff on this side, while Multuomah and his braves cross the river above and unite with us guarding the other side. Then we’ll have ’em just like rats in a trap. When he finds out what we are doing you can just tell him that we have been reinforced by a hundred Nez Perces—and mention Multuomah’s name, for he must have heard of him—and that we want the girl Oneotah, and will allow him to march off if he gives her up.”
“Good!” ejaculated Multuomah.
“The plan appears to be a good one,” rejoined Lieutenant Gardiner; “but there is one drawback to it.”
“What’s that?”
“The Prophet, in his rage at thus finding himself surrounded, might cause the boys to be slaughtered.”
The surveyors were also of this opinion, and so said.
“We might obviate that difficulty by keeping the boys here, and make the attack without imperiling them,” continued Lieutenant Gardiner.
Percy Vere objected strenuously to this.
“That would deprive me of the opportunity of gaining the knowledge I seek,” he urged, “nor would it be fair play to the Prophet.”
“Fair play to an Injun—waugh!” rejoined Glyndon, contemptuously.
“Smoholler was very generous toward us,” persisted Percy, “and I don’t think we ought to take an unfair advantage of him.”
“Percy’s right,” affirmed Cute. “He did the square thing by us, and so give old Smo’ a show!”
Blaikie laughed at the boys’ earnestness, though his words showed that he was of their way of thinking.
“The Prophet has shown a disposition to keep us back without bloodshed, if he could, as his warnings prove,” he said. “I know that but very little faith is to be placed in the tribes hostile to the whites, but this Smoholler may be an exception. He’s an uncommon Indian—there’s no mistake about that. Now, it appears to me, it would be best to let the boys go to him, learn what they can, and tell him that we have been strongly reinforced—let the Nez Perces light their watch-fires on the opposite bank of the river to that effect—and that he must give up the girl and withdraw his men, or we shall attack him.”
Glyndon shook his head, discontentedly.
“That won’t work,” he said—“I know it won’t—there’ll be no Smohollers within ten miles of here by morning, and they’ll take the girl along with them.”
“Let us secure her while we can,” cried Multuomah.
“Mr. Blackie’s plan is the best,” cried Percy; “and I think the Prophet will yield Oneotah up to you, if I tell him you are here.”
This assurance surprised them all, and Glyndon received it incredulously.
“There’s more ways than one to kill a cat,” remarked Robbins, bringing his Yankee shrewdness to bear upon this perplexing question. “What’s to hinder Multuomah from crossing the river some distance above with half his force, and so prevent the Prophet from retreating back to his village?”
Glyndon brightened up at this suggestion.
“That’s the idea, by Jericho!” he exclaimed. “I’ve always heard that two heads were better than one.”
“Even if one is a cabbage-head,” supplied Robbins, laughingly.
“I didn’t say that—though I don’t know whose head you allude to,” rejoined Glyndon, with a grim facetiousness. “But you have just hit the idea. Let the boys go. You can give Smoholler a wrinkle of what’s in store for him, Percy, if he don’t give up the girl; and when you come back safe we’ll just wake up these Smohollers lively.”
“I am in hopes to bring Oneotah back with me,” responded Percy Vere. “There are some good traits in this Prophet, notwithstanding his objection to having a railroad run through his territory. Nor do I believe he can be surprised.”
“You don’t?”
“No; I think his familiarity with this country will afford him an avenue of escape.”
Glyndon shook his head in his dubious manner.
“Not if Multuomah and I get after him,” he rejoined. “I think we can make things unpleasant for the Smohollers, eh, chief?”
“If my warriors will second me, he can not escape us,” answered Multuomah; “but I prefer that he should give up Oneotah and depart in peace. I have no other cause of quarrel against him.”
“But if he will not?” said Blaikie. “If he still persists in obstructing our survey?”
“The Nez Perces will guard your advance, and if they are attacked by the Prophet’s braves, they will know how to defend themselves,” replied Multuomah. “They believe that the white man has power to break the strength of the Prophet’s medicine.”
“That’s lucky, and they’ll fight all the better for it,” said Robbins. “Our survey is all right; your party guarantees that. One good turn deserves another, and so we’ll do our best to get your girl for you. Let the boys go as embassadors to Smoholler—I don’t think they run any risk—and demand the girl, and give him an intimation of what he may expect if he tries to trouble us any further.”
Lieutenant Gardiner, Blaikie, and Glyndon were of this opinion, and so the boys prepared for their return to the Prophet. Percy Vere obtained a small branch of a tree to which he affixed a white handkerchief, to serve as a flag of truce. They left the rifles in the camp, but took with them their revolvers and bowie-knives, though they did not think they would have occasion to use either. Thus prepared they left the breastwork, and walked across the open place toward the mouth of the ravine.
The surveyors, the lieutenant, the old hunter and the chief watched the boys curiously, as they walked over this rocky plateau. The sun was sinking, and its declining beams streamed ruddily through the gap in the cliffs, and shed a kind of halo around the boys as they proceeded.
They stepped forward lightly, and with an easy carriage that showed no apprehension of danger lurked in their young hearts.
The watchers behind the breastwork had soon a startling evidence of the vigilance of Smoholler’s sentinels. Before the boys reached the mouth of the ravine, a light form sprung from between the rocks and bounded toward them—the form, apparently of an Indian boy, wearing an antelope’s head. Oneotah, thus attired, presented a grotesque appearance to the eyes of the beholders. It almost seemed to them as if the animal the head represented was advancing upon its hind-legs, in a series of graceful jumps, to greet the boys.
Oneotah was quickly followed by the tall form of the Prophet, in all his fanciful costume and hideous war-paint. Then, as if by magic, from behind rocks, and from the thickets that skirted the mouth of the ravine, sprung forth a score of Indian warriors, gorgeous in paint and feathers, and the glittering tinsel of their barbaric dress, and each one brandishing a rifle, whose bright barrel glittered in the sunlight.
“Great Jericho! there’s a slew of ’em!” cried Glyndon, as he beheld them. “Fifty of ’em, if there’s one. Ah! the Prophet’s playing a game of brag with us. Wants to show us that he has got enough braves, as he thinks, to wipe us out. He don’t know that Multuomah and his Nez Perces are here, that’s evident.”
Percy Cute was by no means intimidated by this display, for he immediately reversed his position by a hand-spring, and walking toward the Prophet on his hands, offered him one of his feet to shake hands with.
Instead of resenting this action, the Prophet entered into the spirit of it, for he caught Percy Cute by the foot, and with a vigorous motion, that showed his strength of arm, spun the boy up in the air, and Cute descended upon his feet, resuming his proper attitude, and making a bow, after the manner of a gymnast in a circus, as he did so.
During this, Oneotah gave her hand to Percy Vere, and they disappeared together through the mouth of the ravine. Smoholler and Cute followed them, and when the rocks hid them from view, not an Indian warrior was to be seen. They seemed to have melted away among the rocks and trees before which they had been standing, disappearing with a noiseless celerity.
As the tall form of the Prophet, rendered more conspicuous by his richly-bedizened cloak, was lost to view, the sun’s rays, which had illuminated this rocky gorge, were suddenly withdrawn, and a gloom, like a pall, settled over the little valley.
The change, though due to natural causes, came so suddenly as to appear peculiar; and the sudden disappearance of the Prophet and his warriors seemed almost supernatural. There is little doubt that the wily chieftain, knowing that the boys’ progress through the ravine would be watched by their friends,had artfully arranged the whole scene to make it as impressive as possible upon the minds of the beholders.
If this was indeed the case, the effect produced upon the inmates of the surveyors’ camp was all that he could have desired.
As the gloom of night descended, so also did a gloom settle upon Gummery Glyndon’s spirits, and he shook his long, gray locks discontentedly.
“There’s trickery here, and deviltry, and what not!” he cried. “Why, the Prophet was expecting the boys back—was all ready for them; and yet it was ten chances to one against their trusting themselves in his hands again.”
Robbins took a more favorable view of the matter.
“I differ with you there,” he said. “He must have seen Percy Vere’s great anxiety to learn tidings of his father, and so artfully worked upon his feelings to bring him back to him.”
Glyndon shook his head again; but he could not shake away the sudden foreboding that had seized upon his mind.
“Do you think he can tell the boy any thing about his father?” he returned.
“Ah! you are too much for me there; but it is not out of the range of probability. Who knows but what the father came this way, and that Smoholler knows something of his fate?”
Glyndon was impressed by this.
“That’s so,” he admitted.
“His spirits can tell him,” interrupted Multuomah.
The surveyors and Gardiner turned a surprised look upon the young chief.
“Do you believe in his spirits?” they demanded, in a breath.
The young chief smiled.
“Do not you, when you have seen them?” he rejoined.
“It’s all a flam!” cried Glyndon. “The only spirit I ever knew an Injun to have is whisky, and they are particularly fond of it. He can’t tell the boys any thing that way. You saw the Antelope Boy?” he added, suddenly, impressed by a new idea.
“Yes,” answered Multuomah.
“Was it Oneotah?”
“I can not say. Who could tell her in that dress?”
Glyndon shook his head sagely.
“He’s fixed her for a purpose that way so nobody can tell her—the boys said as much,” he responded.
“She—if it is she—is under no restraint, and does his bidding willingly. He’s cast some spell upon her, and that’s what he wants of the boys—he’ll humbug them to go to his village with him, and make them useful to him. He saw they were smart, and he wants them. His telling them about giving them news of Percy’s father is all a humbug.”
“Do you think so?” asked Blaikie, surprisedly.
“I just do.”
“Then, why did you let them go?”
“I was a dunce to do so! But I kind of thought the Prophet might know something, and then the boys were so anxious to go. However, that can’t be helped now; but we must surround the Prophet, and prevent him from carrying them off.”
“Let us set about it, and not waste any more time in anticipating an evil that may never occur,” suggested Lieutenant Gardiner. “Let Multuomah send half his force over here, and then intercept the Prophet’s retreat with the rest. We will wait here until morning, and then force a passage through the ravine. The sound of our rifles will be his signal to advance upon his side. With the force at my disposal, we can soon overpower the Prophet’s band.”
“Your head’s level, leftenant, and that’s just what we will do,” replied Glyndon; “and now let’s have some supper.”
The Prophet welcomed the boys in that stately manner which was as impressive as it was characteristic with him, and Oneotah placed her soft hand in Percy Vere’s with a gentle pressure; but when Cute extended his chubby hand toward her, she declined it expressively.
“Beg to be excused, eh?” said that roguish youngster. “Don’t want a repetition of the grip? If I was somebody else now—a certain good-looking young chief—Mister Multuomah.”
“Multuomah!” exclaimed Oneotah, tremulously.
The Prophet turned sharply upon Cute.
“What do you know of Multuomah?” he demanded.
Behind the Prophet’s back Percy Vere held up his finger, warningly, to his cousin.
“Oh! I don’t know much about him,” replied Cute, leisurely—“I’ve seen him, that’s all. He’s a chief of the Nez Perces—and a splendid looking fellow. He don’t daub his face up as you do yours. You put me in mind of the clown in the circus.”
The Prophet was not to be put aside in his inquiry. His suspicion had been aroused, and he was determined to satisfy it.
“You have seen Multuomah lately?” he continued, fixing his keen eyes upon Cute’s face. “You found him in your camp on your return?”
“Did your spirits tell you that?” rejoined Cute, bewildered by Smoholler’s shrewd guess, and endeavoring to dodge the question.
The Prophet shrugged his shoulders.
“Your face tells me so,” he answered; “and I have no need to call upon my spirits to corroborate it.” He turned to Percy Vere. “Your party has been joined by the young chief of the Nez Perces, Multuomah?” he inquired.
Percy Vere, seeing that Cute had said enough to render any concealment of the truth impolitic, answered:
“Yes.”
“You found him there on your return?”
“I did.”
“He has come in search of me!” exclaimed Oneotah, joyfully.
This glad cry satisfied Percy Vere that the Antelope Boy was, indeed, a girl, and the promised bride of Multuomah, and, with the inherent chivalry of his nature, he resolved to reunite the lovers.
The Prophet held up his finger warningly to Oneotah.
“No matter how much he seeks for you,” he said, “he can never gain possession of you against my will. You know my power—do not provoke it.”
Oneotah shuddered and bowed her head submissively.
“Oh! but you will give me to him?” she pleaded.
“When the time comes,” he replied, impressively.
She was satisfied with this assurance; and so was Percy Vere.
“That is what I told them!” he cried, impulsively.
The Prophet displayed an eager interest as he resumed his inquiries:
“They spoke of Oneotah? Multuomah seeks her?”
“He does.”
“How many warriors has he with him?”
“A hundred.”
The Prophet started.
“So many? Did you see them?”
“No; they were upon the other bank of the river. The chief was alone in our camp, in consultation with the lieutenant, the surveyors, and the hunter, Glyndon. They proposed to hem you in, and prevent your retreat. They do not seek to injure you, however; all they wish is to have you give up Oneotah, and allow the survey to proceed.”
The Prophet laughed contemptuously.
“And if I should refuse to do either?” he returned.
“They will attack you.”
“Fools! The Nez Perces will not fight against Smoholler. When I appear before them, they will scatter like a flock ofsheep before the wolf. Multuomah can not take Oneotah from me by force—he had best not attempt it.”
Percy, remembering Multuomah’s misgivings, was inclined to think that this was no idle boast of the Prophet’s.
“I returned to you to arrange matters peaceably, as much as to gain some intelligence of my father, if you can give it to me,” he said.
“I can give it to you,” replied Smoholler; “but it will try your nerves to receive it, I warn you in advance. You must penetrate with me into the Mystic Cavern beneath yonder cliff—the abode of evil spirits and malignant demons.”
“I will do so,” rejoined Percy, promptly.
“And so will I,” added Cute.
“Good! The sun is already down—let us advance.”
The Prophet led the way from the little glen in which they had held this conference, and struck a broad trail leading to the right.
Percy Vere followed the Prophet, Oneotah came next to him, and Cute brought up the rear. In this order they proceeded, the dim light growing dimmer as they advanced.
They had proceeded but a short distance when Percy felt a pressure upon his right arm, and found that Oneotah had come to his side.
“Do not fear the perils of the Mystic Cavern,” she said. “The White Spirit will protect you.”
These words were uttered cautiously, close to his ear.
“I have no fear,” he returned. “I do not think the Prophet will allow his spirits to injure me. I think him a man of his word, and I am in hopes to persuade him to allow you to go to our camp with me on my return.”
The grasp upon his arm tightened.
“Oh! if you only can!” she murmured, tremulously.
“You would be glad to see Multuomah again?”
“Yes.”
“Oneotah loves Multuomah?”
“Better than her life!”
“Ah! then the Antelope Boy is the White Lily of the Nez Perces?”
“Hush! Oneotah is only the slave of Smoholler—she isonly what he pleases until he sets her free,” she answered, with a sad resignation.
“And would you remain with him if you had a chance to escape?”
“I must.”
“Even if I could restore you to Multuomah?”
“Alas! yes.”
The boy could not understand this.
“What tie is it then that binds you so strongly to Smoholler?” he asked, curiously.
“One of gratitude—and still a stronger one.”
“What?”
“Hush! don’t let him hear us—he is fearful when angered. He is my—”
“Husband?” supplied Percy, remembering the fear that Multuomah had expressed to Glyndon.
“No, no, no!” she answered, quickly. “Why, he is quite an old man. You can not see his features from the war-paint—but I have been permitted to gaze upon his face—I, of all his followers, because I am hisdaughter!”
Percy Vere was thoroughly amazed by this revelation.
“His daughter?” he repeated vaguely.
“Yes. He will give me to Multuomah, in good time, I know he will, for he has always treated me kindly. He saved me from becoming the bride of the fierce chief of the Yakimas. I am not a Nez Perce, nor yet a Yakima, though I have lived with both tribes. I was stolen from my father by the Yakimas when I was a child, and taken from them by a Nez Perce chief named Owaydotah, who reared me as his own daughter. I was very happy in the Nez Perce village, and it was a dreadful blow to me to fall again into the hands of the Yakimas. Smoholler rescued me, and revealed my true history to me, for his Spirit told him where I was. He saved me for Multuomah—can you wonder that I love him for it?”
Percy Vere was much interested in what Oneotah had told him, and he gently detained her.
“I do not wonder that you love this strange man,” he answered. “I am more and more impressed by the evidences of his power that I have seen. Let him pass on—we can overtake him—you know the way?”
“Oh, yes; these scenes are familiar to me. I have often been here before.”
“Yonder cliff is a favorite haunt of the Prophet’s, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“You have been in this Mystic Cavern, as you call it?” continued Percy, pursuing his inquiries, curiously.
“Repeatedly.”
“And have you never feared the demons who inhabit it?”
Oneotah glanced cautiously before her, as if seeking for the Prophet’s tall form, but he had disappeared in the gathering gloom. It was evident that she feared to speak of the cavern and its mysteries in his hearing.
Percy understood the look, and answered to it.
“He is out of sight—he can not hear you,” he said. “It appears that you fear this man as well as love him.”
“No, I do not fear him; but I would do nothing to displease him.”
“Is he easily angered?”
“Oh, no; he has never uttered an angry word to me yet.”
Percy smiled.
“It may be because you have been so submissive to his wishes,” he rejoined. “You appear to me to have a very amiable temper.”
Oneotah laughed, in her musical manner.
“That is why the demons never seek to injure me, I suppose,” she answered.
“Have you ever seen any of these demons?” he cried, quickly.
“Yes—one.”
“The Black Fiend that appeared to us that night upon the cliff?”
“Yes.”
“And he did not seek to injure you?”
“No; why should he?”
Percy shrugged his shoulders; he had a shrewd suspicion of the cause of this immunity, but he did not reveal that suspicion to her.
“True; it must be a fiend indeed that would seek to injure you,” he said.
She turned suddenly upon him.
“You like me?” she exclaimed, vivaciously.
“Very much!”
She gave him her hand with frank impulsiveness, crying:
“And I like you!”
“But not so well as Multuomah?” he rejoined, roguishly.
“Multuomah is a great chief!” she replied, sententiously.
“And an Indian of taste!” he added, impressively.
His words bewildered her, for she did not catch his meaning.
“Of taste?” she repeated, in a questioning manner.
“Decidedly!”
“What makes you think so?”
“Don’t you?”
She was puzzled again.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, simply.
He smiled, but, instead of explaining himself, changed the conversation abruptly by asking her:
“You have also seen the White Spirit?”
“I have.”
“She is very beautiful!”
“The red-men think her so.”
“She has proved a great help to Smoholler in gaining his ascendancy over the minds of the Indians.”
“Yes.”
“You do not fearher?”
“Oh, no; she never injures any one.”
“I thought not.”
Cute now came up with them.
“What are you stopping here for?” he asked.
“Waiting for you to come up,” answered Percy.
“Thank you. I came as fast as I could. I’m short-winded. Phew!”
Cute drew in a long breath, as if preparing for a fresh start.
“That’s because you are so fat!” cried Percy, laughingly.
“Fat be blowed!” retorted Cute, indignantly.
“That’s what I said—you are blown, because you are so fat.”
“Funny, ain’t you? Well, I’d rather be fat than a Slim Jim, like you and the Anteloper. Look at his horns! I’ve often heard of taking a horn, but I wouldn’t like to take one of them horns.”
Oneotah lowered her head and made a playful butt at Cute, who dodged her nimbly, and got behind Percy, crying out:
“None of that! If you are well-bred, don’t be a butter!”
Oneotah laughed merrily at Cute’s apprehension.
“That’s right, my jolly red boy,” continued the fat youth. “And now, Anteloper, don’t you think you had better be a sloper? The Prophet has invited us to a lunch, where we can ‘sup full of horrors’—a nice little hash of goblins, spooks, demons, ghosts and spirits.” Then he began to sing:
“‘Red spirits and white, black spirits and gray,Mingle, mingle, you that mingle may!’”
“‘Red spirits and white, black spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, you that mingle may!’”
“Hush!” cried Percy. “You’ll scare the owls!”
“The what?”
“The owls!”
“Let ’em scare! Who’s afraid? If with myhowlsI scare the owls, let ’em decamp to some adjacent shade!”
“Will you be quiet? I wish to ask Oneotah a few questions before we enter the Mystic Cavern.”
Cute clutched Percy suddenly by the arm.
“Will you take a fool’s advice?” he asked.
“Well, if I take yours I don’t very well see how I can help it,” answered Percy quietly.
“Not bad for you, Percy; but fools sometimes hit the truth.”
“If you think you can hit it, strike out.”
“I was going to suggest that, instead of going into this Mystic Cave, it would be better to cave in on going.”
“Pshaw! are you afraid?”
“Not of mortal, red or white, but when it comes to Black Spooks—fellows that fight with their own shinbones, I beg to be excused.”
“Nonsense! no harm will come to us.”
Cute shook his head, dubiously.
“Oh, won’t there?” he cried. “There aren’t any Accident Tickets issued on this line yet.”
“The Prophet will protect you!” exclaimed Oneotah.
“Then he will be a profit to us if he does. He’s as smart as a steel-trap, I know, is Old Smo’, so let us go, where glory, or any thing else, awaits us.”
“Do be quiet,” insisted Percy. “Oneotah was giving me some valuable information when you interrupted us. She says Smoholler is her father.”
“I wish I was farther—farther from this!” responded the incorrigible Cute. “It’s a wise child that knows its own father, and Antelope may be mistaken. You know what Glyndon thinks; and if she’s a she, and belongs to he, how can the other matter be?”
“That is just what I wish to ascertain.”
“Fire away then, my boy.”
Oneotah did not hear these words. Percy advanced to her, as she had drawn a little apart while the boys held this whispered conference.
“How long have you been with Smoholler, Oneotah?” asked Percy.
“Twelve moons,” she answered.
“Good Lord! do you Indian chaps have twelve moons?” cried Cute. “Why, we white fellows only have one!”
“The Indians count time by moons,” explained Percy. “Their moons are the same as our months.”
“That’s for a ‘twelve month and a day,’ as I have heard the old song say. How moony, and how loony!”
Percy Vere was too much accustomed to Cute’s nonsense to pay much heed to it. He continued his inquiries of Oneotah.
“And you were in the power of the Yakima tribe, you say, when he found you—had you been taken a captive by that tribe?”
She nodded assent.
“They took you away from the Nez Perces, but if I remember aright, your infancy was passed among the Yakimas.”
“So I told you.”
“Do you know how you fell into their hands in the first place?”
“I do not.”
They had paused beside a little brook which ran among the rocks, seeking an outlet to the river.
Percy was more and more satisfied that his idea was a correct one, and that the Antelope Boy, or Oneotah, was of white origin. He was tempted to ask her to remove the singular mask she wore, and let him look upon her face, but the thought that she would probably decline to do so restrained him, and he concluded to wait for a better opportunity.
“I am upon the verge of a discovery,” he told himself. “I feel convinced of it. The Mystic Cavern will clear away every doubt from my mind. But if this is Glyndon’s child, the old hunter should know it; though I dare say he would not have any objection to her marrying this young Nez Perce chief, Multuomah.”
This thought led him to resume his questions.
“Your first recollection, then, dates from the Yakima village?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Oneotah, answering his questions with great frankness.
“Had you any father there?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Nor mother?”
“None that ever claimed me.”
“Have you any recollection of a mother?”
Oneotah shook her head, pensively.
“No,” she answered; “memory recalls no mother’s face gently bending over her infant treasure; no father watching with fond delight the playful gambols of his child, tracing in the little face before him the charms of her who was his young heart’s choice.”
“Nor had you other kindred?”
She shook her head again, with the same plaintive expression.
“I can recall no sister’s tenderness, no brother’s boisterous love,” she rejoined. “Amid the dim phantoms of the past, that recollection brightens into reality, one scene appears the strongest—clearest to my mind.”
Percy Vere was much interested in Oneotah’s recollections of the past.
“What scene was that?” he asked.
“It was on the plain near where the White Mountain towers to the clouds.”
“Mount Rainier?”
“So the white men call it. It was five years ago.”
“How old were you then?”
Oneotah reckoned by “moons,” but Percy had no difficulty in estimating her age at that period to have been thirteen years.
“It was told to me that, when I grew old enough, I was to be the bride of Howlish Wampo.”
“There’s a name!” interrupted Cute, who had kept remarkably quiet for him; but the fact was, he was as much interested as Percy in Oneotah’s narration. “Who christened him I should like to know? You didn’t fancy Mr. Howlish Wampo, eh?”
“I shuddered whenever he looked at me.”
“I don’t wonder at that, considering your prospect of becoming Mrs. Howlish Wampo. Is he any relative to Wampum?”
“Be quiet!” cried Percy. “Your tongue is like a mill wheel when it once gets started.”