Fred Wilder accompanied his new friend without any doubt or hesitation. He knew that the word of an Indian was sacred, when pledged to his adopted brother, and he felt no uneasiness as to the treatment he would receive among the Blackfeet.
In the course of three days they arrived safely at the Blackfeet village, where White Shield introduced his brother, Silverspur, as a great warrior, a man wonderful for strength of arms, keenness of eye, activity of limb, and bigness of heart. He related the particulars of the encounter in which he had formed the acquaintance of the white man, and gave him credit for extraordinary bravery and skill. He concluded by declaring that Silverspur was his sworn brother, and must be treated as such; that he must have full liberty to live among the Blackfeet, to hunt, fish and trade as he pleased, and to go and come as might suit his pleasure.
Instead of being displeased at the arrival of the white man, the Blackfeet appeared to be very well satisfied, and passed many encomiums upon White Shield for having brought such a valuable accession to their tribe. Some of them had heard of Silverspur, and could echo the praise that White Shield bestowed upon him. His rifle had sent death to more than one Blackfoot warrior, and they knew it; but that only added to his glory as a warrior, and they were proud to claim him as one of themselves. Good Ax, the head chief, granted him unlimited trading privileges, and invited him to “marry and settle”—in other words, to select a wife, or as many wives as he wanted.
Silverspur, whose heart had not been enamored by the fair-skinned beauties of his own race, and who was not likely to yield to the fascinations of any dusky damsel, evaded the matrimonial responsibility, saying that he thought it best to wait until he became better known, and that, in the mean time,he would share the lodge of White Shield, who happened to be a bachelor.
A few days after his introduction to the Blackfeet, on his return from a hunting-excursion, he found that a war-party, which had been absent for some time, had arrived at the village. They had been victorious over their adversaries, but had lost a few of their number, for which reason they were debarred from dancing, or rejoicing over their victory. On the contrary, the village was filled with mourning, and the wailing of the mourners, together with the horrible manner in which they mangled themselves, so disgusted the young man that he did not care to inquire further concerning the affair.
Soon after this, there was an alarm at the village, occasioned by the attempt of some marauders to steal horses. Most of the warriors went out to meet the enemy; but Fred Wilder, who did not care to expose his life in the quarrels of the red-men, remained in his lodge, smoking his pipe, and mentally abusing himself for the roving disposition that brought him into “the tents of Ishmael.”
The affair was soon quieted, and the warriors returned in high glee. They had captured two prisoners, as White Shield informed his friend, and had taken a scalp. The mourning in the village, therefore, was at an end. All washed their faces, and prepared for a dance and a jollification.
As sleep was out of the question, in the midst of such an uproar, Wilder sallied out and joined the dancers. The scalp which was the occasion of the revelry, together with one which had been brought in by the war-party, was suspended upon a pole, and Wilder inspected them with the others. The hair of one of the scalps was short, black and curly. That of the other was short, thin and silver gray. It was evident to the young trapper that neither was the scalp of an Indian, and he called White Shield aside to speak to him concerning them.
“That black scalp yonder,” said he, “is not the scalp of an Indian.”
“No; it is the scalp of a white man.”
“They were white men, then, who came to steal horses?”
“Yes; and the two prisoners are white men.”
“Is the gray scalp the scalp of a white man, too?”
“Yes. We would have had a big dance over that scalp, if we had not lost two warriors in the fight. It is the scalp of the white-haired chief.”
“And who was he?”
“I thought you knew him. You call him Robinette, the trader.”
“Whew! The old fellow is dead, then,” said Wilder, musingly. “He was a strange man, shrewd, daring, but rather unscrupulous, as I have heard. Did your braves capture his train?”
“No. They came across his party, and stampeded the horses. As they had surprised the camp, they thought they might do more; but the white men beat them off at last. The men who came to-night were his men. They wanted to get back some of their horses, or to look for the white girl.”
“What white girl?”
“The daughter of the white-haired chief.”
“Is she here?”
“She is in the village. Has not my brother seen her?”
“No. I know nothing of her.”
“You will not be likely to see her for a while, as Good Ax, the head chief, means to take her into his lodge, and she has been shut up from the village.”
Wilder mused a little, and his musings were in this wise:
Why had Paul Robinette brought his daughter into that wilderness? Why had he, Fred Wilder, given himself up to an aimless and roving life? It was very foolish in both of them; but fate had led them to it. It was the fate of Mr. Robinette to be killed and scalped, and it might be the fate of him, Fred Wilder, to have come among the Blackfeet to be of service to the daughter of the murdered man. At all events, she was a woman, and it was his duty to befriend her. It was his duty, also, to befriend the two white captives, and their turn might come first. It would be well for him to see how far he might go with the Blackfeet.
Turning to White Shield, he said:
“What will be done with the white prisoners?”
“They will be burned.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it. They are to be burned early to-morrow morning.”
“I will bet you, White Shield, ten packs of beaver-skins, that they will not be burned while Silverspur lives.”
“What does my brother mean?”
“I mean that I will not allow them to be burned.”
“What will you do?”
“Perhaps I will do nothing; but they shall not be burned.”
“Has my brother lost his senses? He surely does not mean what he says.”
“You will see that I mean it. I am going to the lodge, White Shield. I am tired of this deviltry.”
Wilder turned his back upon the crowd of dancing and yelling Indians, and retired to his lodge, where he pondered his own situation and that of Flora Robinette, until he fell asleep.
In the morning there was a great commotion in the village. Preparations were made for the torture of the two white captives, and all the Blackfeet were early astir. Two stout stakes were set in the ground, near the middle of the village, and the victims were brought to them, surrounded and followed by a motley throng of Indians, of all ages and both sexes.
Dennis Regan, who had not spoken a word since his vow of the previous night, was bound to one post, and Pap Byers to the other, and what may be called the small torturing commenced. Women and children assailed the white men with all sorts of opprobrious epithets, beat them with sticks, kicked them, pinched them, pulled their hair, and provoked them by every means in their power.
Byers hurled back their taunts indignantly, and abused the Blackfeet to the best of his ability. He knew what sort of a death they intended for him, and he hoped to arouse them to such fury that, in a moment of anger, they might kill him at once. He boasted of the number of their braves that he had slain, and accused them of cowardice, taunting them with not daring to take the life of a white man, even when he was bound before them. They could not hurt him, he said, and he dared them to do their worst, as a white warrior could teach them how to die. The Irishman remained silent. When he was spoken to, he pointed to his tongue, and shook his head; but not a word escaped his lips.
The warriors soon put a stop to this play. Scattering the women and children, they brought poles and twigs, which they piled in a circle, nearly waist high, around the victims. Then, amid diabolical yells and screeches, fire was put to the piles, and the torture commenced.
It was not to last long. Hardly had the flames begun to crackle among the twigs, when Fred Wilder, fully armed, strode into the throng, kicked away the burning poles, stamped out the fire, and took his stand near the prisoners, gazing defiantly at the crowd of savages.
The Blackfeet were astonished at his audacity. Some of them laid their hands upon their weapons; but all drew back, as if bewildered, and wondering what might happen next. After a few moments, Good Ax, the head chief, stepped forward and addressed the intruder.
“Why does Silverspur seek to interfere with his brothers? Has he forgotten that when he became a Blackfoot, he ceased to be a white man?”
“My heart is white, and always will be,” fiercely replied Wilder. “I can not stand by and see men of my own race murdered. What have these white men done to you, that you wish to burn them?”
“We caught them stealing our horses.”
“They had a right to try to recover the property which you had taken from them.”
“But the white men are the enemies of the Blackfeet.”
“Say, rather, that, the Blackfeet are the enemies of the white men, who have never mistreated you, and have never fought you except when you have compelled them to do so. Look at these men! One of them, as you can see, is not able to speak. Would you slay a man who has been stricken by the Great Spirit? I say that they shall not be burned while I live, and I know well that more than one of you will fall before I die.”
It is said that a wild beast will shrink from the steady glance of a brave man. So did the savages quail before the fearless eye and undaunted demeanor of Fred Wilder. His audacity seemed almost supernatural, and made them fear that he might have something to back him which they could not even guess at.
In a few minutes, however, this feeling passed away. They saw that he was but a man, as they were, and they began to think of punishing him for his bold attempt to spoil their sport. Their threatening looks and hostile attitudes caused him to raise his rifle and level it at the most demonstrative. In another moment there might have been bloodshed; but White Shield suddenly changed the face of affairs. Bursting through the throng, he took his stand by the side of his friend.
“White Shield is a warrior!” he exclaimed. “He is a great brave, and he never feared the face of an enemy. There is none who can lay cowardice or crime to the charge of White Shield. Shall he hang back, like a dog, when his brother is in danger? Silverspur is his sworn brother, and he is ready to die for his brother, whether he is right or wrong. He is not wrong. These white men are his friends, and the Blackfoot who would not try to save the life of his friend would be called a coward. Come, my brothers! Who will go to the spirit-land with White Shield and Silverspur?”
A number of the relatives of White Shield, both old and young, came forward, with their weapons in their hands, and ranged themselves by his side. As the hostile parties confronted each other, the affair seemed about to assume a serious aspect, when the head chief stepped forward and spoke.
“This is a small matter to us,” he said, “and we would do wrong to kill each other about it. One of these prisoners, as Silverspur has said, has been stricken by the Great Spirit, and we can easily give the life of the other to our white brother. Loose them from the stakes, but let them be securely guarded. They shall live, but they must not leave us until we move the village. Is Silverspur satisfied?”
Wilder expressed his satisfaction, and pressed the hand of the chief. When the prisoners had been led away, and the crowd had dispersed, he returned to his lodge with White Shield.