White Shield joined the Arapahoes in the chase of Silverspur.
With the Blackfoot paint washed from his face, and with his blanket over his head, he had entered the village, and had had no difficulty in going where he pleased, and making suchexaminations as he wished to make. He mingled with the Arapahoes on the street of the village, entered some of their lodges, and even conversed with them. But he did not find Flora Robinette, nor did he see or hear any thing to lead him to suppose that she was still among the Arapahoes.
Desiring to make his search as thorough as possible, he remained longer than he had expected to when he parted from Silverspur. The barking of the dog made him anxious concerning his friend, and presented him at the same time, as he thought, a good opportunity to get clear of the village.
“That is my dog,” he said, as some of the warriors began to show signs of uneasiness at the continued barking of the animal. “I will go and see what is the matter with him.”
This expression, by which the Blackfoot hoped to cover his friend, nearly brought him into trouble. It so happened that there was only one dog in the village, and that its owner was standing by when White Shield spoke. This Indian turned upon him angrily, and he could only avoid the consequences of his damaging remark by passing it off as a joke. The owner of the dog went to look for the animal, and White Shield sidled away from the group of Indians who had begun to suspect him.
Shortly there came from the forest a yell, piercing and full of anguish, that was at once recognized as the death-cry of the man who had gone to the dog.
The savages bounded away to avenge the death of their comrade, and White Shield joined them, hoping to get clear himself, if he could do nothing to aid his friend. Although several of the warriors were ahead of him, he soon perceived that Silverspur had mounted his horse, and was rapidly flying from his pursuers.
Believing that his friend on horseback could easily distance the Indians on foot, he thought it best to look to his own safety.
In their eager pursuit the Arapahoes had passed the place from which Silverspur had started, and where the horse of the Blackfoot was still concealed. Profiting by their negligence, White Shield lingered behind until all had passed him. He then untethered his horse, and quietly led him away until he was out of hearing of the Arapahoes, when he mounted, and rode off into the prairie, where he hoped to find his friend.
When he believed himself to be at a safe distance, he halted and listened anxiously; but he heard nothing of the wild triumphant yell that would have announced the death or capture of the fugitive. Concluding, therefore, that Silverspur had escaped, he rode about until daylight, expecting to meet him. In this he was disappointed, as he could not find even a trail. He at last perceived that it would be necessary to commence the search at the beginning—to start at the place from which Silverspur had started.
He concealed his horse, and went to the spot where he had left Silverspur the night before. It was easy to track the fugitive by the footprints of his horse, and White Shield followed them through the forest and over a piece of level ground beyond, until they abruptly terminated at the edge of a precipice.
The Blackfoot looked over the precipice, and saw that it was a fearful leap to the bottom. It was not to be supposed that a man could take such a leap and live. He was forced to the conclusion that Silverspur had taken this leap in the dark, and had been killed.
By a circuitous route White Shield reached the ravine at the foot of the bluff, and there saw abundant evidence of the truth of his surmise. There were spots of blood upon the stones, and an indentation of the turf showed that a heavy body had fallen upon it. There were many footprints in the vicinity, and a trail led up one of the hills that surrounded the ravine. The Arapahoes had carried away the body, no doubt, and their silence the previous night was occasioned by the fact that they had not then descended into the ravine to search for their victim.
White Shield did not follow the trail that led up the hill, as he supposed that it only went around to the village. It was possible that his friend might still be living, though terribly mangled. If he was dead, it would be some satisfaction to recover his scalp from his enemies. To this purpose White Shield now devoted himself.
After dark he went to the Arapaho village, and prowled about their lodges, confident that there would be some sort of a celebration over their victory, if the death of Silverspur could be so regarded. He was not mistaken. Bonfires wereblazing, and preparations were being made for a grand jubilee, which soon commenced.
Near the largest bonfire was a pole, from which a single scalp was hanging. Around this men and women, mingled together, danced and sung, and every now and then, at the tap of a drum, one of the warriors would step forward and recount his exploits.
White Shield did not long witness this scene from concealment. He felt sure that Silverspur was dead, and that the Arapahoes were rejoicing over his scalp. This awakened in him a desire to snatch the trophy from their possession, and to take vengeance upon them for the death of his friend. He was just in the mood for such an achievement. He had deserted his tribe, Silverspur was gone, and there would be no one to mourn for him if he should fall. In fact, he was desperate, ready at any moment to sing his death-song and pass to the spirit-land.
He threw his blanket over his head, and mingled with the Indians of the village. He was not foolhardy enough to join the dance; but he forced his way into the circle, and walked up to the pole from which the scalp was hanging.
To his great surprise he perceived that the scalp was dry, as if it had long hung in the smoke of a lodge. The hair, moreover, was thin and gray, almost white. White Shield had never heard any of those tales of civilized men whose hair has suddenly turned gray from the effect of terrible fright or severe suffering. If he had read them, he would not for a moment have believed that any thing could change the long and waving masses of Silverspur’s brown hair to those thin gray threads.
It was not Silverspur’s scalp. His friend was living; or, if he was dead, the Arapahoes had not been able to outrage his remains. White Shield was no longer desperate. He had an object to live for, and his caution returned to him. His entrance into the circle, his examination of the gray scalp, and the train of thought which followed from that examination, had occupied only a few moments of time; but he felt that he was in a dangerous position, from which he would find it difficult to extricate himself.
The warriors were already scrutinizing him, with glancesfull of suspicion. If he should step out as he had come in, he would be followed and questioned, and it would soon be discovered that he was a stranger and an enemy. He might run for his life; but his chances of escape would be very poor, and, if he should succeed, the Arapahoes would be put on their guard against his subsequent movements.
His resolution was as audacious as it was sudden. At the tap of the drum he threw off his blanket, and stepped forward.
“Arapahoes!” he exclaimed, “do you remember that, at the last season of the falling leaf, you lost a tall warrior at the Black Fork of the Platte? He was very strong, and a great brave. I killed him.”
“We remember,” responded some of the Arapahoes, looking up at the speaker in surprise.
White Shield proceeded to mention other Arapahoes who had fallen by his hand, and the same response followed each narration. At the fifth, which filled the number allowed to each relator, a warrior started up.
“Are you speaking the truth?” he said. “It was White Shield, a great brave of the Blackfeet, who killed Red Bear.”
“I am White Shield,” replied the Blackfoot. “I am a warrior, as you know, and a great brave. I have left the Blackfeet, and they would kill me if they should see me. I have come to the Arapahoes, who are great warriors, to make them my brothers, and to fight for them. Do you want me, Arapahoes? If you do, I will stay with you. If not, I am ready to sing my death-song and go to the spirit-land.”
The audacious warrior had not to wait a moment for a response. The Arapahoes thronged about him tumultuously, embracing him, and covering him with presents.
His initiation into the tribe was completed; but it must be confessed that he did not intend to remain an Arapaho. He had joined them for the purpose of saving his own scalp and rendering assistance to his friend. Further than this he did not then look.
He soon made inquiries concerning the scalp which had been the occasion of the dance, and was told the story of the chase of an unknown white man who had been discovered by a dog, and who had been killed by a fall from a cliff.
White Shield was puzzled. The Arapahoes described thepursuit of Silverspur; but the scalp was not his. Who had the old medicine-man buried, and whose scalp had he given to the warriors? Surely it could not be Silverspur. White Shield said nothing more concerning the scalp, but determined to investigate the matter quietly.
As soon as it was dusk he left the village, and went to the place where he had concealed his horse. The animal was safe; but the keen eye of the Blackfoot quickly detected signs of some presence besides his own. Somebody had been there during his absence, and, unless his penetration was greatly at fault, somebody was still concealed in the vicinity.
White Shield applied himself to find out who this somebody was. While he affected to busy himself about his horse, his bright eyes searched the forest, and took note of every tree, twig, leaf and blade of grass within the range of his vision. In the course of this searching investigation he saw another pair of eyes, twinkling from behind a leafy hedge of bushes. He was sure that those eyes belonged to a white man, and the white man could not be Silverspur, who would have recognized him and spoken to him. Any other white man was his enemy, and this one had been lying in wait for him.
The Blackfoot left the horse, and walked toward the thicket in which he had seen the eyes glisten. He walked slowly, looking about him upon the ground, as if searching for something he had lost. He passed the thicket, and then, with the quickness of lightning, turned and threw himself upon his concealed foe.
A brief struggle followed, in which both of the combatants came crashing out of the bushes, and fell upon the ground. But the red-man had the advantage of surprise—of the first attack—and he kept it. In a few seconds his enemy was under his knee, and his right hand was raised, ready to strike with his glittering knife. The white man closed his eyes, and muttered one word:
“Flora!”
The Indian started. His knife was lowered harmlessly, and the grasp of his left hand was relaxed. “Flora!”—he had heard the name used by Silverspur, and perhaps this white man might be a friend of her whom Silverspur called Flora.
“Who are you?” he asked in plain English. “Who is Flora?”
A thought occurred to the white man. A hope dawned upon him, and his eyes brightened as they opened. This red-skin knew the name of Flora; he was a Blackfoot, as was evident from his paint and his garb; he was among the Arapahoes.
“Who are you?” asked the white man. “Are you the Blackfoot who went off with Silverspur?”
“I am. Are you a friend to Silverspur?”
“I am not his enemy. I am George Benning,” replied the white man, who was not sure in what position he stood toward Silverspur.
“Let my brother rise. Silverspur is my brother, and his friends are my friends.”
The two men, forgetting their late conflict, seated themselves amicably upon the ground, and conversed about the matters in which both were deeply interested. White Shield related all he knew of Flora and Silverspur, and enlightened the mind of Benning on some points that had been dark to him; but there was nothing to show him that Silverspur had or had not gained the love of Flora, and on this subject his anxiety was still intense.
The question was, what had become of Flora and Silverspur? Believing that two heads are better than one, and that his own was better than the Blackfoot’s, Benning proposed to accompany White Shield to the place at which Fred Wilder was supposed to have been killed by falling from the cliff.
They went there, and made a careful examination of the locality; but Benning was obliged to admit that he was as much in the dark as the Indian was. It was unreasonable to suppose that a man could have fallen from such a hight without being killed, and it was equally unreasonable to suppose that the gray scalp that had been exhibited among the Arapahoes had belonged to Silverspur. Both agreed that the only chance of solving the mystery lay in following the trail that led up the hill; but both agreed that it was useless to undertake the enterprise that night.
Benning then informed the Blackfoot that he had come with a band of Crow warriors, under the leadership of Bad Eye,their chief, who were ready to aid him in any enterprise against the Arapahoes. They were encamped at a little distance to the northward, and he had come on in advance, to spy about the village of the Arapahoes.
White Shield was not entirely pleased with this communication, although he showed no signs of displeasure. The Crows were the enemies of his tribe, and the Arapahoes were now his friends. He was ready to shake off his allegiance to them if he might thus benefit Silverspur; but he was not willing to betray them to the Crows. He made no reply to Benning, except to protest against any hostile act before the whereabouts of Silverspur could be discovered.
On this point Benning was uncertain, as he feared that his own plans and those of the Blackfoot might run counter to each other. He said that the discovery must soon be made, if at all, as it would be impossible for the Crows to remain long in the vicinity without a conflict.
It was settled that they should commence the search together in the morning, and White Shield returned to the village, as he could not be absent from the Arapahoes the first night after his admission to the tribe. Benning concluded to remain where he was, as he could hide there as well as elsewhere, and would be at hand to take up the trail in the morning.