Chapter Fifty Two.

Chapter Fifty Two.Raising a Rampart.I kept the telescope to my eye not half so long as I have taken in telling of it. Quick as I saw that the men stirring around the waggon were Indians, I thought only of screening my person from their sight. To effect this, I dropped down from the summit of the rock—on the opposite side from that facing toward the savages. Showing only the top of my head, and with the glass once more levelled up the valley, I continued the observation. I now became assured that the victim of the ensanguined skull was a white man; that the other prostrate forms were also the bodies of white men, all dead—all, no doubt, mutilated in a similar manner?The tableau told its own tale. The presence of the waggon halted, and without horses—one or two dead ones lying under the tongue—the ruck of Indians clustering around it—the bodies stretched along the earth—other objects, boxes, and bales, strewed over the sward—all were significant of recent strife. The scene explained what we had heard while coming up the cañon. The fusillade had been no fancy, but a fearful reality—fearful, too, in its effects, as I was now satisfied by the testimony of my telescope. The caravan had been attacked, or, more likely, only a single waggon that had been straggling in the rear? The firing may have proceeded from the escort, or the armed emigrants? Indians may have fallen: indeed there were some prostrate forms apart, with groups gathered around them, and those I conjectured to be the corpses of red men. But it was evident the Indians had proved victorious: since they were still upon the field—still holding the place and the plunder.Where were the other waggons of the train? There were fifty of them—only one was in sight! It was scarcely possible that the whole caravan had been captured. If so, they must have succumbed within the pass? A fearful massacre must have been made? This was improbable: the more so, that the Indians around the waggon appeared to number near two hundred men. They must have constituted the full band: for it is rare that a war-party is larger. Those seen appeared to be all warriors, naked from the breech-clout upward, their skins glaring with pigments. Neither woman nor child could I see among them. Had the other waggons been captured, there would not have been so many of the captors clustered around this particular one. In all likelihood, the vehicle had been coming up behind the others? The animals drawing it had been shot down in the skirmish, and it had fallen into the hands of the successful assailants?These conjectures occupied me only a moment. Mingled with them was one of still more special import: to whom had belonged the abandoned waggon? With fearful apprehension, I covered the ground with my glass—straining my sight as I gazed through it. I swept the whole surface of the surrounding plain. I looked under the waggon—on both sides of it, and beyond. I sought amidst the masses of dusky forms I examined the groups and stragglers—even the corpses that strewed the plain. Thank Heaven! they were all black, or brown, or red! All appeared to bemen—both the living and the dead—thank Heaven! The ejaculation ended my survey of the scene: it had scarcely occupied ten seconds of time.It was interrupted by a sudden movement on the part of the savages. Those on horseback were seen separating from the rest; and, the instant after, appeared coming on in the direction of the butte! The movement was easily accounted for. My imprudence had betrayed our presence. I had been seen while standing on the summit of the mound! I felt regret for my own rashness; but there was no time to indulge in the feeling, and I stifled it. The moment called for action—demanding all the firmness of nerve and coolness of head which, fortunately, I had acquired by the experience of similar arises. Instead of shouting to my comrades—as yet unconscious of the approaching danger—I remained upon the summit without uttering a word, or showing a sign that might alarm them. My object in so acting was to avoid the confusion, consequent upon a sudden panic, and keep my mind free to think over some plan of escape. The Indians were still five miles off. It would be some minutes at least before they could attack us. Two or three of these could be spared for reflection. After that, it would be time to call in the counsel of my companions.I am here describing in detail, and with the tranquillity of closet retrospect, thoughts that follow one another with the rapidity of lightning flashes. To say that I reflected coolly, would not be true: I was at that moment too much under the influence of fear for tranquil reflection. I perceived at once that the situation was more than dangerous: it was desperate. Flight was my first thought, or rather my first instinct: for, on reflection, it failed. The idea was to fling off the packs, mount the two pedestrians upon the mules, and gallop back for the cañon. The conception was good enough, if it could have been carried out, but of this there was no hope. The defile was too distant to be reached in time. The two who might ride the mules could never make it—they must fall by the way. Even if all four of us should succeed in getting back to the cañon, what then? Was it likely we should ever emerge from it? We might for a time defend ourselves within its narrow gorge; but to pass clear through and escape at the other end would be impossible. A party of our pursuers would be certain to take over the ridge, and head us below. To anticipate them in their arrival there, and reach the woods beyond, would be utterly out of our power. The trail through the cañon was full of obstacles, as we had already discovered—and these would delay us. Without a prospect of reaching the forest below it would be of no use attempting flight. In the valley around us there was no timbered tract—nothing that deserved the name of a wood: only copses and groves, the largest of which would not have sheltered us for an hour.I had a reflection. Happy am I now, and proud, that I had the virtue to stifle it. For myself, escape by flight might not have been so problematical. A steed stood near that could have carried me beyond all danger. It only needed to fling myself into the saddle, and ply the spur. Even without that impulsion, my Arab would, and could, have carried me clear of the pursuit. Death was preferable to the thought. I could only indulge it as a last resort—after all else had failed and fallen. Three men were my companions, true and tried. To all of them, I owed some service—to one little less than my life—for the bullet of the eccentric ranger had once saved me from an enemy. It was I who had brought on the impending attack. It was but just I should share its danger; and the thought of shunning it vanished on the instant of its conception. Escape by flight appeared hopeless. On the shortest survey of the circumstances I perceived that our only chance lay in defending ourselves. The chance was not much worth; but there was no alternative. We must stand and tight, or fall without resisting. From such a foe as that coming down upon us, we need expect no grace—not a modicum of mercy. Where was our defence to be made? On the summit of the butte? There was no better place in sight—no other that could be reached, offering so many advantages. Had we chosen it for a point of defence, it could not have promised better for the purpose. As already stated, the cone was slightly truncated—its top ending in amesa. The table was large enough to hold four of us. By crouching low, or lying flat upon it, we should be screened from the arrows of the Indians, or such other weapons as they might use. On the other hand, the muzzles of four guns pointed atthem, would deter them from approaching the base of the butte. Scarcely a minute was I in maturing a plan; and I lost less time in communicating it to my companions. Returning to them, as fast as I could make the descent, I announced the approach of the Indians.The announcement produced a surprise sufficiently unpleasant, but no confusion. The old soldiers had been too often under fire to be frightened out of their senses at the approach of an enemy; and the young hunter was not one to give way to a panic. All three remained cool and collected, as they listened to my hurried detail of the plan I had sketched out for our defence. There was no difficulty in inducing them to adopt it. All agreed to it eagerly and at once: in short, all saw that there was no alternative. Up the mound again—this time followed by my three comrades—each of us heavily laden. In addition to our guns and ammunition, we carried our saddles and mule-packs, our blankets and buffalo-robes. It was not their intrinsic value that tempted us to take this trouble with ourimpedimenta: our object was to make with them a rampart upon the rock. We had just time for a second trip; and, flinging our first loads up to the table, we rushed back down the declivity. Each seized upon such objects as offered themselves—valises, the soldiers’ knapsacks, joints of the antelope lately killed, and the noted meal-bag—all articles likely to avail us in building our bulwark.The animals must be abandoned—both horses and mules. Could we take them up to the summit? Yes, the thing could be accomplished, but to what purpose? It would be worse than useless: since it would only render them an aim for the arrows of the enemy, and insure their being shot down at once. To leave them below appeared the better plan. A tree stood near the base of the mound. To its branches their bridles had been already looped. There they would be within easy range of our rifles. We could shelter them so long as there was light. To protect them might appear of little advantage; since in the darkness they could be easily taken from us. But in leaving them thus, we were not without some design. We, too, might build a hope on the darkness. If we could succeed in sustaining the attack until nightfall, flight mightthenavail us. In truth, that seemed the only chance we should have of ultimately escaping from our perilous situation. We resolved, therefore, to look well to the safety of the animals. Though, forced to forsake them for a time, we might still keep the enemy off, and again recover them? The contingency was not clear, and we were too much hurried to dwell long upon it. It only flitted before our minds like a gleam of light through, the misty future.I had just time to bid farewell to my Arab—to run my fingers along his smooth arching neck—to press my lips to his velvet muzzle. Brave steed! tried and trusty friend! I could have wept at the parting. He made answer to my caresses: he answered them with a low whimpering neigh. He knew there was something amiss—that there was danger. Our hurried movements had apprised him of it; but the moment after, his altered attitude, his flashing eyes, and the loud snorting from his spread nostrils, told that he perfectly comprehended the danger. He heard the distant trampling of hoofs: he knew that an enemy was approaching. I heard the sounds myself, and rushed back up the butte. My companions were already upon the summit, busied in building the rampart around the rock. I joined them, and aided them in the work.Ourparaphernaliaproved excellent for the purpose—light enough to be easily handled, and sufficiently firm to resist either bullets or arrows. Before the Indians had come within hailing distance, the parapet was completed; and, crouching behind it, we awaited their approach.

I kept the telescope to my eye not half so long as I have taken in telling of it. Quick as I saw that the men stirring around the waggon were Indians, I thought only of screening my person from their sight. To effect this, I dropped down from the summit of the rock—on the opposite side from that facing toward the savages. Showing only the top of my head, and with the glass once more levelled up the valley, I continued the observation. I now became assured that the victim of the ensanguined skull was a white man; that the other prostrate forms were also the bodies of white men, all dead—all, no doubt, mutilated in a similar manner?

The tableau told its own tale. The presence of the waggon halted, and without horses—one or two dead ones lying under the tongue—the ruck of Indians clustering around it—the bodies stretched along the earth—other objects, boxes, and bales, strewed over the sward—all were significant of recent strife. The scene explained what we had heard while coming up the cañon. The fusillade had been no fancy, but a fearful reality—fearful, too, in its effects, as I was now satisfied by the testimony of my telescope. The caravan had been attacked, or, more likely, only a single waggon that had been straggling in the rear? The firing may have proceeded from the escort, or the armed emigrants? Indians may have fallen: indeed there were some prostrate forms apart, with groups gathered around them, and those I conjectured to be the corpses of red men. But it was evident the Indians had proved victorious: since they were still upon the field—still holding the place and the plunder.

Where were the other waggons of the train? There were fifty of them—only one was in sight! It was scarcely possible that the whole caravan had been captured. If so, they must have succumbed within the pass? A fearful massacre must have been made? This was improbable: the more so, that the Indians around the waggon appeared to number near two hundred men. They must have constituted the full band: for it is rare that a war-party is larger. Those seen appeared to be all warriors, naked from the breech-clout upward, their skins glaring with pigments. Neither woman nor child could I see among them. Had the other waggons been captured, there would not have been so many of the captors clustered around this particular one. In all likelihood, the vehicle had been coming up behind the others? The animals drawing it had been shot down in the skirmish, and it had fallen into the hands of the successful assailants?

These conjectures occupied me only a moment. Mingled with them was one of still more special import: to whom had belonged the abandoned waggon? With fearful apprehension, I covered the ground with my glass—straining my sight as I gazed through it. I swept the whole surface of the surrounding plain. I looked under the waggon—on both sides of it, and beyond. I sought amidst the masses of dusky forms I examined the groups and stragglers—even the corpses that strewed the plain. Thank Heaven! they were all black, or brown, or red! All appeared to bemen—both the living and the dead—thank Heaven! The ejaculation ended my survey of the scene: it had scarcely occupied ten seconds of time.

It was interrupted by a sudden movement on the part of the savages. Those on horseback were seen separating from the rest; and, the instant after, appeared coming on in the direction of the butte! The movement was easily accounted for. My imprudence had betrayed our presence. I had been seen while standing on the summit of the mound! I felt regret for my own rashness; but there was no time to indulge in the feeling, and I stifled it. The moment called for action—demanding all the firmness of nerve and coolness of head which, fortunately, I had acquired by the experience of similar arises. Instead of shouting to my comrades—as yet unconscious of the approaching danger—I remained upon the summit without uttering a word, or showing a sign that might alarm them. My object in so acting was to avoid the confusion, consequent upon a sudden panic, and keep my mind free to think over some plan of escape. The Indians were still five miles off. It would be some minutes at least before they could attack us. Two or three of these could be spared for reflection. After that, it would be time to call in the counsel of my companions.

I am here describing in detail, and with the tranquillity of closet retrospect, thoughts that follow one another with the rapidity of lightning flashes. To say that I reflected coolly, would not be true: I was at that moment too much under the influence of fear for tranquil reflection. I perceived at once that the situation was more than dangerous: it was desperate. Flight was my first thought, or rather my first instinct: for, on reflection, it failed. The idea was to fling off the packs, mount the two pedestrians upon the mules, and gallop back for the cañon. The conception was good enough, if it could have been carried out, but of this there was no hope. The defile was too distant to be reached in time. The two who might ride the mules could never make it—they must fall by the way. Even if all four of us should succeed in getting back to the cañon, what then? Was it likely we should ever emerge from it? We might for a time defend ourselves within its narrow gorge; but to pass clear through and escape at the other end would be impossible. A party of our pursuers would be certain to take over the ridge, and head us below. To anticipate them in their arrival there, and reach the woods beyond, would be utterly out of our power. The trail through the cañon was full of obstacles, as we had already discovered—and these would delay us. Without a prospect of reaching the forest below it would be of no use attempting flight. In the valley around us there was no timbered tract—nothing that deserved the name of a wood: only copses and groves, the largest of which would not have sheltered us for an hour.

I had a reflection. Happy am I now, and proud, that I had the virtue to stifle it. For myself, escape by flight might not have been so problematical. A steed stood near that could have carried me beyond all danger. It only needed to fling myself into the saddle, and ply the spur. Even without that impulsion, my Arab would, and could, have carried me clear of the pursuit. Death was preferable to the thought. I could only indulge it as a last resort—after all else had failed and fallen. Three men were my companions, true and tried. To all of them, I owed some service—to one little less than my life—for the bullet of the eccentric ranger had once saved me from an enemy. It was I who had brought on the impending attack. It was but just I should share its danger; and the thought of shunning it vanished on the instant of its conception. Escape by flight appeared hopeless. On the shortest survey of the circumstances I perceived that our only chance lay in defending ourselves. The chance was not much worth; but there was no alternative. We must stand and tight, or fall without resisting. From such a foe as that coming down upon us, we need expect no grace—not a modicum of mercy. Where was our defence to be made? On the summit of the butte? There was no better place in sight—no other that could be reached, offering so many advantages. Had we chosen it for a point of defence, it could not have promised better for the purpose. As already stated, the cone was slightly truncated—its top ending in amesa. The table was large enough to hold four of us. By crouching low, or lying flat upon it, we should be screened from the arrows of the Indians, or such other weapons as they might use. On the other hand, the muzzles of four guns pointed atthem, would deter them from approaching the base of the butte. Scarcely a minute was I in maturing a plan; and I lost less time in communicating it to my companions. Returning to them, as fast as I could make the descent, I announced the approach of the Indians.

The announcement produced a surprise sufficiently unpleasant, but no confusion. The old soldiers had been too often under fire to be frightened out of their senses at the approach of an enemy; and the young hunter was not one to give way to a panic. All three remained cool and collected, as they listened to my hurried detail of the plan I had sketched out for our defence. There was no difficulty in inducing them to adopt it. All agreed to it eagerly and at once: in short, all saw that there was no alternative. Up the mound again—this time followed by my three comrades—each of us heavily laden. In addition to our guns and ammunition, we carried our saddles and mule-packs, our blankets and buffalo-robes. It was not their intrinsic value that tempted us to take this trouble with ourimpedimenta: our object was to make with them a rampart upon the rock. We had just time for a second trip; and, flinging our first loads up to the table, we rushed back down the declivity. Each seized upon such objects as offered themselves—valises, the soldiers’ knapsacks, joints of the antelope lately killed, and the noted meal-bag—all articles likely to avail us in building our bulwark.

The animals must be abandoned—both horses and mules. Could we take them up to the summit? Yes, the thing could be accomplished, but to what purpose? It would be worse than useless: since it would only render them an aim for the arrows of the enemy, and insure their being shot down at once. To leave them below appeared the better plan. A tree stood near the base of the mound. To its branches their bridles had been already looped. There they would be within easy range of our rifles. We could shelter them so long as there was light. To protect them might appear of little advantage; since in the darkness they could be easily taken from us. But in leaving them thus, we were not without some design. We, too, might build a hope on the darkness. If we could succeed in sustaining the attack until nightfall, flight mightthenavail us. In truth, that seemed the only chance we should have of ultimately escaping from our perilous situation. We resolved, therefore, to look well to the safety of the animals. Though, forced to forsake them for a time, we might still keep the enemy off, and again recover them? The contingency was not clear, and we were too much hurried to dwell long upon it. It only flitted before our minds like a gleam of light through, the misty future.

I had just time to bid farewell to my Arab—to run my fingers along his smooth arching neck—to press my lips to his velvet muzzle. Brave steed! tried and trusty friend! I could have wept at the parting. He made answer to my caresses: he answered them with a low whimpering neigh. He knew there was something amiss—that there was danger. Our hurried movements had apprised him of it; but the moment after, his altered attitude, his flashing eyes, and the loud snorting from his spread nostrils, told that he perfectly comprehended the danger. He heard the distant trampling of hoofs: he knew that an enemy was approaching. I heard the sounds myself, and rushed back up the butte. My companions were already upon the summit, busied in building the rampart around the rock. I joined them, and aided them in the work.

Ourparaphernaliaproved excellent for the purpose—light enough to be easily handled, and sufficiently firm to resist either bullets or arrows. Before the Indians had come within hailing distance, the parapet was completed; and, crouching behind it, we awaited their approach.

Chapter Fifty Three.The War-Cry.The war-cry “How-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!” uttered loudly from a hundred throats, comes pealing down the valley. Its fiendish notes, coupled with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well calculated to quail the stoutest heart. Ours are not without fear. Though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance in the tones of that wild slogan. They express more than the usual hostility of red to white—they breathe a spirit of vengeance. The gestures of menace—the brandished spears, and bended bows—the war-clubs waving in the air—are all signs of the excited anger of the Indians. Blood has been spilled—perhaps the blood of some of their chosen warriors—and ours will be sought to a certainty. We perceive no signs of a pacific intent—no semblance that would lead us to hope for mercy. The foe is bent on our destruction. He rushes forward to kill!I have said that the danger was not immediate. I did not conceive it so. My conception was based upon experience. I had met the prairie Indians before—in the south; but north or south, I knew that their tactics were the same. It is a mistake to suppose that these savages rush recklessly upon death. Only when their enemy is far inferior to them in numbers—or otherwise an under-match—will they advance boldly to the fight. They will do this in an attack upon Mexicans, whose prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind—when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal vendetta. On other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their skins—more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even travellers who tenter the prairies from the east. Of all other weapons, they dread the long rifle of the hunter. It is only after stratagem has failed—whendo or diebecomes a necessity—that the horse-Indian can bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel. The mere hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers within the circle of a rifle’s range. They all know from experience the deadliness of its aim.Most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too confident in their security. These had not succumbed without a struggle. The death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner appeared to have been taken. Further evidence of it was seen upon the sward; for as the crowd scattered, I observed through, the glass several corpses that were not those of white men. The robbers, though victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which they were charging down upon us. With all their menace both of signs and sounds, I had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to its base. There were fifty yards around it within range of our guns; and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely to go forth from it alive.“Not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting! Do not one of you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!” This was the order passed around. On the skill of my comrades I could confide—on Sure-shot with all the certainty which hissoubriquetexpressed; and I had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle. About the Irishman alone was there a doubt—only of his coolness and his aim—of his courage there was none. In this, the infantry was perhaps equal to any of us.The words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy came galloping up. Their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their wild vociferations. We could only hear one another by calling out at the top of our voices. But we had little to say. The time for talking had expired: that of action had arrived. On come the whooping; savages, horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted, each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can suggest. The visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are depicted on their breasts and shields—with the still more horrid emblems of the death’s head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand. Even their horses are covered with similar devices—stained upon their skins in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion! The sight is too fearful to be fantastic. On they come, uttering their wild “Howgh-owgh-aloo!” brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields ofparflècherattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears—on comes the angry avalanche!They are within a hundred yards of the butte. For a moment we are in doubt. If they charge up the declivity, we are lost men. We may shoot down the foremost; but they are twenty to one. In a hand-to-hand struggle, we shall be overwhelmed—killed or captured—in less than sixty seconds of time!“Hold your fire!” I cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks against their guns; “not yet! only two at a time—but not yet! Ha! as I expected.”And just as I had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt—those in the lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon the edge of a precipice! They had come to a stand just in the nick of time. Had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their number would have tumbled out of their saddles. Sure-shot and I had each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire. The others were ready to follow. All four barrels resting over the rampart had caught the eyes of the Indians. A glance at the glistening tubes was sufficient. True to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that had halted them!

The war-cry “How-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!” uttered loudly from a hundred throats, comes pealing down the valley. Its fiendish notes, coupled with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well calculated to quail the stoutest heart. Ours are not without fear. Though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance in the tones of that wild slogan. They express more than the usual hostility of red to white—they breathe a spirit of vengeance. The gestures of menace—the brandished spears, and bended bows—the war-clubs waving in the air—are all signs of the excited anger of the Indians. Blood has been spilled—perhaps the blood of some of their chosen warriors—and ours will be sought to a certainty. We perceive no signs of a pacific intent—no semblance that would lead us to hope for mercy. The foe is bent on our destruction. He rushes forward to kill!

I have said that the danger was not immediate. I did not conceive it so. My conception was based upon experience. I had met the prairie Indians before—in the south; but north or south, I knew that their tactics were the same. It is a mistake to suppose that these savages rush recklessly upon death. Only when their enemy is far inferior to them in numbers—or otherwise an under-match—will they advance boldly to the fight. They will do this in an attack upon Mexicans, whose prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind—when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal vendetta. On other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their skins—more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even travellers who tenter the prairies from the east. Of all other weapons, they dread the long rifle of the hunter. It is only after stratagem has failed—whendo or diebecomes a necessity—that the horse-Indian can bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel. The mere hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers within the circle of a rifle’s range. They all know from experience the deadliness of its aim.

Most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too confident in their security. These had not succumbed without a struggle. The death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner appeared to have been taken. Further evidence of it was seen upon the sward; for as the crowd scattered, I observed through, the glass several corpses that were not those of white men. The robbers, though victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which they were charging down upon us. With all their menace both of signs and sounds, I had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to its base. There were fifty yards around it within range of our guns; and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely to go forth from it alive.

“Not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting! Do not one of you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!” This was the order passed around. On the skill of my comrades I could confide—on Sure-shot with all the certainty which hissoubriquetexpressed; and I had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle. About the Irishman alone was there a doubt—only of his coolness and his aim—of his courage there was none. In this, the infantry was perhaps equal to any of us.

The words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy came galloping up. Their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their wild vociferations. We could only hear one another by calling out at the top of our voices. But we had little to say. The time for talking had expired: that of action had arrived. On come the whooping; savages, horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted, each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can suggest. The visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are depicted on their breasts and shields—with the still more horrid emblems of the death’s head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand. Even their horses are covered with similar devices—stained upon their skins in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion! The sight is too fearful to be fantastic. On they come, uttering their wild “Howgh-owgh-aloo!” brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields ofparflècherattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears—on comes the angry avalanche!

They are within a hundred yards of the butte. For a moment we are in doubt. If they charge up the declivity, we are lost men. We may shoot down the foremost; but they are twenty to one. In a hand-to-hand struggle, we shall be overwhelmed—killed or captured—in less than sixty seconds of time!

“Hold your fire!” I cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks against their guns; “not yet! only two at a time—but not yet! Ha! as I expected.”

And just as I had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt—those in the lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon the edge of a precipice! They had come to a stand just in the nick of time. Had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their number would have tumbled out of their saddles. Sure-shot and I had each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire. The others were ready to follow. All four barrels resting over the rampart had caught the eyes of the Indians. A glance at the glistening tubes was sufficient. True to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that had halted them!

Chapter Fifty Four.The Red-Hand.The whooping and screaming are for a while suspended. Those in the rear have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes massed upon the plain, at less than two hundred yards’ distance from the butte. Shouts are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread war-cry. That has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer. Now and then, young warriors gallop toward the butte, vaunt their valour, brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word and gesture. All, however, keep well outside the perilous circumference covered by our guns.We perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles—in all, a dozen or more! We can tell that they are empty. Those who carry them are dismounting to load. We may expect soon to receive their fire; but, from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not terrify us—any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far short.Half-a-dozen horsemen are conspicuous. They are chiefs, as can be told by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their breasts and bodies. These have ridden to the front, and are grouped together—their horses standing head to head. Their speeches and gesticulations declare that they are holding council. The movements of menace are no longer made. We have time to examine our enemies. They are so near that I need scarcely level the glass upon them; though through it, I can note every feature with minute distinctness.They are not Comanches. Their bodies are too big, and their limbs too long, for these Ishmaelites of the southern plains. Neither are they of the Jicarilla-Apache: they are too noble-looking to resemble these skulking jackals. More like are they to the Caygüas? But no—they are not Caygüas. I have met these Indians, and should know them. The war-cry did not resemble theirs. Theirs is the war-cry of the Comanche. I should have known it at once. Cheyennes they may be—since it is their especial ground? Or might it be that tribe of still darker, deadlier fame—the hostile Arapaho? If they be Arapahoes, we need look for no mercy.I sweep the glass over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify our enemy. I perceive one that is significant. The leggings of the chiefs and principal warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are encircled by similar ornaments. Most of these appendages are of dark hue—the locks long and black. But not all are of this kind or colour. One shield is conspicuously different from the rest. A red-hand is painted upon its black disc. It is thetotemof him who carries it. A thick fringe of hair is set around its rim. The tufts are of different lengths and colours. There are tresses of brown, blonde, and even red; hair curled and wavy; coarse hair; and some soft and silky. Through the glass I see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt as to the character of these variedchevelures. They are the scalps of whites—both of men and women! And the red-hand upon the shield? A red-hand? Ah! I remember. There is a noted chief of the name, famed for his hostility to the trappers—famed for a ferocity unequalled among his race—a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives—especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into his hands. Can it be that fiend—the Red-Hand of the Arapahoes?The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. A body, tall, angular, and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire—an aspect more fiend-like than human! All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the Red-Hand chief. Assuredly it is he. Our enemies, then, are the Arapahoes—their leader the dreadedRed-Hand.“Heaven have mercy upon us! These men will have none!” Such was the ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I recognised, the foe that was before us.The Red-Hand is seen to direct. He is evidently leader of the band. All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at his word or nod. Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers, who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. A dreaded band, long known to the traders of Santa Fé—to thecibolerosfrom the Taos Valley—to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte. We are not the first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. Many a brave “mountain-man” has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp. Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been “rubbed” out by Red-Hand and his “Rapahoes.”The council of the chiefs continues for some time. Someruseis being devised and debated among them. With palpitating hearts we await the issue. I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and cautioned my comrade’s to be on their guard. I have told them that, if my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. The talk is at an end. Red-Hand is about to address us. Riding two lengths in front of his followers, the savage chief makes halt. His shield is held conspicuously upward—its convexity towards us—not for any purpose of security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer. Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. In his other hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the bunch—easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured waggon. They are all fresh and gory—hang limber along the shaft. The blood is not yet dry upon them—the wet surface glitters in the sun! We view them with singular emotions—mine perhaps more singular than any. I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too satisfied at failing.

The whooping and screaming are for a while suspended. Those in the rear have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes massed upon the plain, at less than two hundred yards’ distance from the butte. Shouts are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread war-cry. That has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer. Now and then, young warriors gallop toward the butte, vaunt their valour, brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word and gesture. All, however, keep well outside the perilous circumference covered by our guns.

We perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles—in all, a dozen or more! We can tell that they are empty. Those who carry them are dismounting to load. We may expect soon to receive their fire; but, from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not terrify us—any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far short.

Half-a-dozen horsemen are conspicuous. They are chiefs, as can be told by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their breasts and bodies. These have ridden to the front, and are grouped together—their horses standing head to head. Their speeches and gesticulations declare that they are holding council. The movements of menace are no longer made. We have time to examine our enemies. They are so near that I need scarcely level the glass upon them; though through it, I can note every feature with minute distinctness.

They are not Comanches. Their bodies are too big, and their limbs too long, for these Ishmaelites of the southern plains. Neither are they of the Jicarilla-Apache: they are too noble-looking to resemble these skulking jackals. More like are they to the Caygüas? But no—they are not Caygüas. I have met these Indians, and should know them. The war-cry did not resemble theirs. Theirs is the war-cry of the Comanche. I should have known it at once. Cheyennes they may be—since it is their especial ground? Or might it be that tribe of still darker, deadlier fame—the hostile Arapaho? If they be Arapahoes, we need look for no mercy.

I sweep the glass over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify our enemy. I perceive one that is significant. The leggings of the chiefs and principal warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are encircled by similar ornaments. Most of these appendages are of dark hue—the locks long and black. But not all are of this kind or colour. One shield is conspicuously different from the rest. A red-hand is painted upon its black disc. It is thetotemof him who carries it. A thick fringe of hair is set around its rim. The tufts are of different lengths and colours. There are tresses of brown, blonde, and even red; hair curled and wavy; coarse hair; and some soft and silky. Through the glass I see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt as to the character of these variedchevelures. They are the scalps of whites—both of men and women! And the red-hand upon the shield? A red-hand? Ah! I remember. There is a noted chief of the name, famed for his hostility to the trappers—famed for a ferocity unequalled among his race—a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives—especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into his hands. Can it be that fiend—the Red-Hand of the Arapahoes?

The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. A body, tall, angular, and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire—an aspect more fiend-like than human! All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the Red-Hand chief. Assuredly it is he. Our enemies, then, are the Arapahoes—their leader the dreadedRed-Hand.

“Heaven have mercy upon us! These men will have none!” Such was the ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I recognised, the foe that was before us.

The Red-Hand is seen to direct. He is evidently leader of the band. All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at his word or nod. Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers, who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. A dreaded band, long known to the traders of Santa Fé—to thecibolerosfrom the Taos Valley—to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte. We are not the first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. Many a brave “mountain-man” has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp. Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been “rubbed” out by Red-Hand and his “Rapahoes.”

The council of the chiefs continues for some time. Someruseis being devised and debated among them. With palpitating hearts we await the issue. I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and cautioned my comrade’s to be on their guard. I have told them that, if my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. The talk is at an end. Red-Hand is about to address us. Riding two lengths in front of his followers, the savage chief makes halt. His shield is held conspicuously upward—its convexity towards us—not for any purpose of security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer. Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. In his other hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the bunch—easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured waggon. They are all fresh and gory—hang limber along the shaft. The blood is not yet dry upon them—the wet surface glitters in the sun! We view them with singular emotions—mine perhaps more singular than any. I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too satisfied at failing.

Chapter Fifty Five.An ill-timed Shot.“Hablo Castellano?” cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexicanpatois. They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but better—from their captives.“Si cavallero! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?”“The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the white men—their scalps and lives—that is the will of the Arapaho chief!”The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw.“Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers.”“Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!”I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. I made no reply.“Dogs!” fiercely vociferated the savage, “come down, and deliver up your arms!”“An’ our scalps too, I s’pose,” muttered the Yankee. “Neo, certingly not, at your price: I don’t sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. ’Twouldn’t pay nohow. Lookee yeer, old red gloves!” continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart—“this heer o’ mine air vallable, do ee see? It air a rare colour, an’ a putty colour. It ’ud look jest the thing on thet shield o’ yourn; but ’tain’t there yet, not by a long chalk; an’ I kalklate ef ye want the skin o’ my head, ye’ll have to trot up an’ take it.”“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture. “The yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. His scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. It will be given to the dogs of our tribe. It will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie.”“Ain’t partickler abeout what ’ee do wi’ ’t—thet is, efter ye’ve got it. Don’t ye wish ’ee may get it? eh?”“Wagh!” exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation. “The Red-Hand is tired talking. One word more. Listen to it, chief of the pale-faces! Come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons! The Red-Hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives. If you resist, he will torture you with fire. The knives of his warriors will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths; and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”“And what if we do not resist?”“Your lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand declares it on the faith of a warrior.”“Faith o’ a warrior!—faith o’ a cut-throat! He only wants to come round us, capting, an’ git our scalps ’ithout fightin’ for ’em—thet’s what the red verming wants to be at—sure as shootin’.”“Why should the Red-Hand spare our lives?” I enquired, taken by surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter. “Has he not just said, that all white men are his enemies?”“True. But white men may become his friends. He wants white men for his allies. He has a purpose.”“Will the Red-Hand declare his purpose?”“Freely. His people have taken, many fire-weapons. See! they are yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them. Our enemies—the Utahs—have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks of the Arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets. If the pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the band of Red-Hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand will honour the young soldier-chief, and the White Eagle of the forest.”“Soldier-chief. White Eagle of the forest! How can he have known—”“If you resist,” continued he, interrupting my reflections, “the Red-Hand will keep his word. You have no chance of escape. You are but four, and the Arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the Big Timber. If one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged. The Red-Hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths, and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”“Be Jaysis, cyaptin!” cried O’Tigg, who, not understanding Spanish, was ignorant of what had been said, “that ugly owld Indyan wants a bit ov cowld lid through him. In troth, I b’lave the musket moight raich him. She belonged to Sargent Johnson, an’ was considhered the longest raich gun about the Fort. What iv I throy her carry on the ridskin? Say the word, yer honour, an’ here goes!”So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove—not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout:“Hooray! he’s down—be my sowl! he’s down! I knew the owld musket ’ud raich him! Hooray!”The report reverberated from the rocks—mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down—stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death!“Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn’t it a splindid shat?”“A shot that may cost us our scalps,” said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement—even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. “Ha, ha, ha!” came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. “Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!”And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors.

“Hablo Castellano?” cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.

I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexicanpatois. They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but better—from their captives.

“Si cavallero! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?”

“The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the white men—their scalps and lives—that is the will of the Arapaho chief!”

The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw.

“Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers.”

“Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!”

I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. I made no reply.

“Dogs!” fiercely vociferated the savage, “come down, and deliver up your arms!”

“An’ our scalps too, I s’pose,” muttered the Yankee. “Neo, certingly not, at your price: I don’t sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. ’Twouldn’t pay nohow. Lookee yeer, old red gloves!” continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart—“this heer o’ mine air vallable, do ee see? It air a rare colour, an’ a putty colour. It ’ud look jest the thing on thet shield o’ yourn; but ’tain’t there yet, not by a long chalk; an’ I kalklate ef ye want the skin o’ my head, ye’ll have to trot up an’ take it.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture. “The yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. His scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. It will be given to the dogs of our tribe. It will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie.”

“Ain’t partickler abeout what ’ee do wi’ ’t—thet is, efter ye’ve got it. Don’t ye wish ’ee may get it? eh?”

“Wagh!” exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation. “The Red-Hand is tired talking. One word more. Listen to it, chief of the pale-faces! Come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons! The Red-Hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives. If you resist, he will torture you with fire. The knives of his warriors will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths; and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”

“And what if we do not resist?”

“Your lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand declares it on the faith of a warrior.”

“Faith o’ a warrior!—faith o’ a cut-throat! He only wants to come round us, capting, an’ git our scalps ’ithout fightin’ for ’em—thet’s what the red verming wants to be at—sure as shootin’.”

“Why should the Red-Hand spare our lives?” I enquired, taken by surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter. “Has he not just said, that all white men are his enemies?”

“True. But white men may become his friends. He wants white men for his allies. He has a purpose.”

“Will the Red-Hand declare his purpose?”

“Freely. His people have taken, many fire-weapons. See! they are yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them. Our enemies—the Utahs—have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks of the Arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets. If the pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the band of Red-Hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand will honour the young soldier-chief, and the White Eagle of the forest.”

“Soldier-chief. White Eagle of the forest! How can he have known—”

“If you resist,” continued he, interrupting my reflections, “the Red-Hand will keep his word. You have no chance of escape. You are but four, and the Arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the Big Timber. If one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged. The Red-Hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths, and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”

“Be Jaysis, cyaptin!” cried O’Tigg, who, not understanding Spanish, was ignorant of what had been said, “that ugly owld Indyan wants a bit ov cowld lid through him. In troth, I b’lave the musket moight raich him. She belonged to Sargent Johnson, an’ was considhered the longest raich gun about the Fort. What iv I throy her carry on the ridskin? Say the word, yer honour, an’ here goes!”

So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove—not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout:

“Hooray! he’s down—be my sowl! he’s down! I knew the owld musket ’ud raich him! Hooray!”

The report reverberated from the rocks—mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down—stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death!

“Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn’t it a splindid shat?”

“A shot that may cost us our scalps,” said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement—even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. “Ha, ha, ha!” came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. “Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!”

And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors.

Chapter Fifty Six.Attempt to stampede.We made an attempt to open the interrupted parley. In vain. Whatever amicable design the Red-Hand might have conceived was now changed to a feeling of the most deadly hostility. There was no more “talk” to be drawn from him—not a word. In the midst of his warriors, he stood scowling and silent. Neither did any of the chiefs deign to reply. The common braves made answers to our overtures; but only by the insult of a peculiar gesture. Any hopes we might have conceived of a pacific termination to the encounter, died within us as we noted the behaviour of the band. Whether the Indian was in earnest in the proposal he had made, or whether it was a mere scheme to get our scalps without fighting for them, we could not tell at the time. There was an air of probability that he was honest about the matter; but, on the other hand, his notorious character for hostility to the white race contradicted this probability. I had heard, moreover, that this same chief was in the habit of adopting such stratagems to get white men into his power. We had no time to speculate upon the point; nor yet upon that which puzzled us far more—how he had arrived at the knowledge of who we were! What could he have known of the “White Eagle of the forest,” or the “young soldier-chief?” So far as I was myself concerned, the title might have been explained.My uniform—I still wore it—might have been espied upon the prairies? The Indians are quick at catching an appellation, and communicating it to one another. But the figurative soubriquet of the young hunter? That was more specific. The Red-Hand could not have used it accidentally? Impossible. It bespoke a knowledge of us, and our affairs, that appeared mysterious and inexplicable. It did not fail to recall to our memory the apparition that had astonished Wingrove in the morning. There was no opportunity to discuss the question. We had only time for the most vague conjectures—before the savages began to fire at us—discharging in rapid succession the guns which they had loaded.We soon perceived that we had little to fear from this sort of attack. Unless by some stray bullet, there was not much danger of their hitting us. Their clumsymanègeof the fire-weapon was evident enough. It added to the probability, that the chief had been in earnest about our giving instructions to his warriors. Still was there some degree of danger. The guns they had got hold of were large ones—most of them old muskets of heavy calibre—that cast their ounces of lead to a long distance. We heard their bullets pattering against the rocks, and one or two of them had passed whistling over our heads. It was just possible to get hit; and, to avoid such an accident, we crouched behind our parapet, as closely as if we had been screening ourselves from the most expert marksmen. For a long time we did not return their fire. O’Tigg was desirous of trying another shot with his piece, but I forbade it. Warned by what they had witnessed, the Indians had retired beyond even the range of the Serjeant’s fusil.Two parties of savages now separate from the main body; and, taking opposite directions, go sweeping at full gallop round the butte. We divine their object. They have discovered the position of our animals: the intention is tostampedethem. We perceive the importance of preventing this. If we can but keep our animals out of the hands of the savages until darkness come down, then may there be some prospect of our escaping by flight. True, it is only a faint hope. There are many contingencies by which the design may be defeated, but there are also circumstances to favour it; and to yield without a struggle, would only be to deliver ourselves into the hands of an unpitying foe. The last words uttered by the Arapaho chief have warned us that death will be preferable to captivity.We are sustained by another remembrance. We know that we are not the first white men who have been thus surrounded, and who afterwards contrived to escape. Many a small band of brave trappers have sustained the attack of a whole Indian tribe; and though half of their number may have fallen, the others lived to relate the perilous adventure. The life of a determined man is difficult to take. A desperate sortie often proves the safest defence; and three or four resolute arms will cut a loophole of escape through a host of enemies. Some such thoughts, flitting before us, hinder us from succumbing to despair.It was of the utmost importance, to prevent our animals from being swept off; and to this end were our energies now directed. Three of us faced towards them—leaving the fourth to watch the movements of the enemy on the other side of the butte.Once more the wild cry rings among the rocks, as the red horsemen gallop around—rattling their shields, and waving their weapons high in the air. These demonstrations are made to affright our animals, and cause them to break from their fastenings. They have not the desired effect. The mules prance and hinnie; the horses neigh and bound over the grass; but the long boughs bend without breaking: and, acting as elastic springs, give full play to the affrighted creatures. Not a rein snaps—not a lazo breaks—not a loop slides from its hold! The first skurry is over; and we are gratified to see the four quadrupeds still grouped around the tree, and fast as ever to its branches. Thestampedehas proved a failure. Another swoop of the wild horsemen ends with like result: and then another. And now closer and closer they come—galloping in all directions, crossing and meeting, and wheeling and circling—with shrill screams and violent gesticulations. As they pass near, they shelter themselves behind the bodies of their horses. An arm over the withers, a leg above the croup, are all of the riders we can see. It is useless to fire at these. The horses we might tumble over at pleasure; but the men offer no point to aim at. At intervals a red face gleams through the tossing locks of the mane; but, ere we can take sight upon it, it is jerked away. For a considerable time this play is kept up, the Indians all the time yelling as if engaged in some terrible conflict.As to ourselves, we are too wary to waste our shots upon the horses; and we reserve them in the hope of being able to “draw a bead” on some rider more reckless than the rest. The opportunity soon offers. Two of the savages exhibit a determination to succeed in snatching away the horses. Knife in hand, they career around, evidently with the design of cutting the bridles and lazoes. Cheered on by the shouts of their comrades, they grow less careful of their skins, and at length make a dash towards the group under the tree. When almost within head-reach of the fastenings by which the mules are held, one of the latter slews suddenly round, and sends her heels in a well-directed fling against the head of the foremost horse! The steed instantly wheels, and the other coming behind follows the same movement, exposing both the riders to our aim. They make an effort to throw themselves to the other side of their animals; but the opportunity is lost. Our rifles are too quick for them. Two of us fire at the same instant; and as the smoke clears away, the red robbers are seen sprawling upon the plain. Our shots have proved fatal. Before we can reload, the struggles of the fallen horsemen have ended; and both lie motionless upon the grass.The lesson was sufficient for the time. Warned by the fate of their comrades, the Indians, although still continuing their noisy demonstrations, now kept well out of the range of our rifles. There appeared to be no others in the band, desirous of achieving fame at such a risk of life.

We made an attempt to open the interrupted parley. In vain. Whatever amicable design the Red-Hand might have conceived was now changed to a feeling of the most deadly hostility. There was no more “talk” to be drawn from him—not a word. In the midst of his warriors, he stood scowling and silent. Neither did any of the chiefs deign to reply. The common braves made answers to our overtures; but only by the insult of a peculiar gesture. Any hopes we might have conceived of a pacific termination to the encounter, died within us as we noted the behaviour of the band. Whether the Indian was in earnest in the proposal he had made, or whether it was a mere scheme to get our scalps without fighting for them, we could not tell at the time. There was an air of probability that he was honest about the matter; but, on the other hand, his notorious character for hostility to the white race contradicted this probability. I had heard, moreover, that this same chief was in the habit of adopting such stratagems to get white men into his power. We had no time to speculate upon the point; nor yet upon that which puzzled us far more—how he had arrived at the knowledge of who we were! What could he have known of the “White Eagle of the forest,” or the “young soldier-chief?” So far as I was myself concerned, the title might have been explained.

My uniform—I still wore it—might have been espied upon the prairies? The Indians are quick at catching an appellation, and communicating it to one another. But the figurative soubriquet of the young hunter? That was more specific. The Red-Hand could not have used it accidentally? Impossible. It bespoke a knowledge of us, and our affairs, that appeared mysterious and inexplicable. It did not fail to recall to our memory the apparition that had astonished Wingrove in the morning. There was no opportunity to discuss the question. We had only time for the most vague conjectures—before the savages began to fire at us—discharging in rapid succession the guns which they had loaded.

We soon perceived that we had little to fear from this sort of attack. Unless by some stray bullet, there was not much danger of their hitting us. Their clumsymanègeof the fire-weapon was evident enough. It added to the probability, that the chief had been in earnest about our giving instructions to his warriors. Still was there some degree of danger. The guns they had got hold of were large ones—most of them old muskets of heavy calibre—that cast their ounces of lead to a long distance. We heard their bullets pattering against the rocks, and one or two of them had passed whistling over our heads. It was just possible to get hit; and, to avoid such an accident, we crouched behind our parapet, as closely as if we had been screening ourselves from the most expert marksmen. For a long time we did not return their fire. O’Tigg was desirous of trying another shot with his piece, but I forbade it. Warned by what they had witnessed, the Indians had retired beyond even the range of the Serjeant’s fusil.

Two parties of savages now separate from the main body; and, taking opposite directions, go sweeping at full gallop round the butte. We divine their object. They have discovered the position of our animals: the intention is tostampedethem. We perceive the importance of preventing this. If we can but keep our animals out of the hands of the savages until darkness come down, then may there be some prospect of our escaping by flight. True, it is only a faint hope. There are many contingencies by which the design may be defeated, but there are also circumstances to favour it; and to yield without a struggle, would only be to deliver ourselves into the hands of an unpitying foe. The last words uttered by the Arapaho chief have warned us that death will be preferable to captivity.

We are sustained by another remembrance. We know that we are not the first white men who have been thus surrounded, and who afterwards contrived to escape. Many a small band of brave trappers have sustained the attack of a whole Indian tribe; and though half of their number may have fallen, the others lived to relate the perilous adventure. The life of a determined man is difficult to take. A desperate sortie often proves the safest defence; and three or four resolute arms will cut a loophole of escape through a host of enemies. Some such thoughts, flitting before us, hinder us from succumbing to despair.

It was of the utmost importance, to prevent our animals from being swept off; and to this end were our energies now directed. Three of us faced towards them—leaving the fourth to watch the movements of the enemy on the other side of the butte.

Once more the wild cry rings among the rocks, as the red horsemen gallop around—rattling their shields, and waving their weapons high in the air. These demonstrations are made to affright our animals, and cause them to break from their fastenings. They have not the desired effect. The mules prance and hinnie; the horses neigh and bound over the grass; but the long boughs bend without breaking: and, acting as elastic springs, give full play to the affrighted creatures. Not a rein snaps—not a lazo breaks—not a loop slides from its hold! The first skurry is over; and we are gratified to see the four quadrupeds still grouped around the tree, and fast as ever to its branches. Thestampedehas proved a failure. Another swoop of the wild horsemen ends with like result: and then another. And now closer and closer they come—galloping in all directions, crossing and meeting, and wheeling and circling—with shrill screams and violent gesticulations. As they pass near, they shelter themselves behind the bodies of their horses. An arm over the withers, a leg above the croup, are all of the riders we can see. It is useless to fire at these. The horses we might tumble over at pleasure; but the men offer no point to aim at. At intervals a red face gleams through the tossing locks of the mane; but, ere we can take sight upon it, it is jerked away. For a considerable time this play is kept up, the Indians all the time yelling as if engaged in some terrible conflict.

As to ourselves, we are too wary to waste our shots upon the horses; and we reserve them in the hope of being able to “draw a bead” on some rider more reckless than the rest. The opportunity soon offers. Two of the savages exhibit a determination to succeed in snatching away the horses. Knife in hand, they career around, evidently with the design of cutting the bridles and lazoes. Cheered on by the shouts of their comrades, they grow less careful of their skins, and at length make a dash towards the group under the tree. When almost within head-reach of the fastenings by which the mules are held, one of the latter slews suddenly round, and sends her heels in a well-directed fling against the head of the foremost horse! The steed instantly wheels, and the other coming behind follows the same movement, exposing both the riders to our aim. They make an effort to throw themselves to the other side of their animals; but the opportunity is lost. Our rifles are too quick for them. Two of us fire at the same instant; and as the smoke clears away, the red robbers are seen sprawling upon the plain. Our shots have proved fatal. Before we can reload, the struggles of the fallen horsemen have ended; and both lie motionless upon the grass.

The lesson was sufficient for the time. Warned by the fate of their comrades, the Indians, although still continuing their noisy demonstrations, now kept well out of the range of our rifles. There appeared to be no others in the band, desirous of achieving fame at such a risk of life.

Chapter Fifty Seven.Our Weak Point.For some time the savage horsemen continued their circling gallop around the butte—one occasionally swooping nearer; but covered by the body of his horse in such a way that it was impossible to sight him. These manoeuvres were executed by the young warriors, apparently in a spirit of bravado, and with the design of showing off their courage and equestrian skill. We disregarded the harmless demonstrations, watching them only when made in the direction of our animals. At intervals a hideous face peeping over the withers of a horse, offered a tempting target. My comrades would have tried a flying shot had I not restrained them. A miss would have damaged our prestige in the eyes of the enemy. It was of importance that they should continue to believe in the infallibility of the fire-weapon.After a time, we observed a change of tactics. The galloping slackened, and soon came to an end. The horsemen threw themselves into small groups, at nearly equal distances apart, and forming a ring round the butte. Most of the riders then dismounted, a few only remaining upon their horses, and continuing to dash backward and forward, from group to group. These groups were beyond the range of our rifles, though not of the sergeant’s musket. But the savages—both mounted and afoot—had taken care to make ramparts of their steeds. At first, this manoeuvre of our enemies appeared to have no other object than that of placing themselves in a position to guard against our retreat. A moment’s reflection, however, told us that this could not be the design. There were but two points by which we could pass down to the plain—on opposite sides of the butte—why then should theysurroundit? It could not be for the purpose of cutting off our retreat? That could be done as effectually without the circular deployment.Their design soon became apparent. We observed that the muskets were distributed among the groups, three or four to each. With these they now opened fire upon us from all sides at once, keeping it up as fast as they could load the pieces. The effect was to render our situation a little more perilous. Not having the means to make our parapet continuous, we were at several points exposed. Had we had good marksmen to deal with, we should have been in danger. As it was, we drew well back towards the centre of the platform; and were screened by its outer angles. Now and then a shot struck the rock, sending the splinters in our faces; but all four of us escaped being hit by the bullets.We had made an observation that rendered us uneasy: we had observed a weak point in our defence. We wondered that our assailants had not also noticed it. Around the butte, and close up to its base, lay many boulders of rock. They were prisms of granite, that had become detached from the cairn itself, and rolled down its declivity. They rested upon the plain, forming a ring concentric with the circular base of the mound. Many of these boulders had a diameter of six feet, and would have sheltered the body of a man from our shots. Others, again, rested along the sloping sides of the butte—also of prismatic shapes, with sides overhanging. These might form ramparts for our assailants should they attempt to storm our position. Even the spreading cedars would have hidden them from our sight. They were the trailing juniper of the western wilds—very different from the Virginian cedar. They were of broad bushy forms, with stunted stems, and tortuous branches, densely set with a dark acetalous foliage. They covered the sides of the butte, from base to middle height, with a draping perfectly impenetrable to the eye. Though there was no path save that already mentioned, assailants, active as ours, might unseen have scaled the declivity. Should the Indians make a bold, dash up to the base of the butte, leave their horses, and take to the rocks, they might advance upon us without risk. While working their way up the slope, they would be safe from our shots, sheltered by the projecting prisms, and screened by the trees. We should not dare to expose ourselves over the edge of the platform: since the others, remaining behind the boulders below, would cover us with their aim; and the shower of arrows would insure our destruction. Those who might scale the mound, would have us at their mercy. Assailing us simultaneously from all sides, and springing suddenly upon the platform, ten to one against us, they could soon overpower us.These were the observations we had made, and the reflections that resulted from them. We only wondered that our enemies had not yet perceived the advantage of this plan of attack; and, since they had neglected it so long, we were in hopes that the idea would not occur to them at all. It was not long before we perceived our error; and that we had miscalculated the cunning of our dusky foes. We saw the Indians once more taking to their horses. Some order had reached them from the Red-Hand, who stood conspicuous in the midst of the largest group of his warriors. The movement that resulted from this order was similar to that already practised in the endeavour to stampede our animals: only that all the band took part in it—even the chiefs mounting and riding among the rest. The marksmenaloneremained afoot, and continued to fire from behind their horses.Once more the mounted warriors commence galloping in circles round the butte. We perceive that at each wheel they are coming nearer, and can divine their intent. It is the very plan of attack we have been apprehending! We can tell by their gestures that they are about to charge forward to the rocks.Regardless of the fire from the plain, we creep back to the edge of the parapet, and point our pieces towards the circling horsemen. We are excited with, new apprehensions; but the caution to keep cool is once more passed around; and each resolves not to fire without being certain of his aim. On our first shots will depend the success or failure of the attack. As before, we arrange that two only shall fire at a time. If the shots prove true, and two of our foes fall to them, it may check the charge, perhaps repulse it altogether? Such often happens with an onset of Indians—on whom the dread of the fire-weapon acts with a mysterious effect. On the other hand, if we miss, our fate is sealed and certain. We shall not even have the choice of that last desperate resort, on which we have built a hope. We shall be cut off from all escape: for our animals will be gone before we can reach them. On foot, it will be idle to attempt flight. Even could we run the gauntlet through their line, we know they could overtake us upon the plain!We feel like men about to throw dice for our lives, and dice too that are loaded against us! Nearer and nearer they come, until they are coursing within fifty yards of the butte, and scarcely twice that distance from our guns. Were their bodies uncovered, we could reach them; but we see only their hands, feet, and faces—the latter only at intervals. They draw nearer and nearer, till at length they are riding within the circle of danger. Our superior elevation gives us the advantage. We begin to see their bodies over the backs of their horses. A little nearer yet, and some of these horses will go riderless over the plain! Ha! they have perceived their danger—one and all of them. Notwithstanding their cries of bravado, and mutual encouragement, they dread to make the final rush. Each fears that himself may be the victim!Our heads were growing dizzy with watching them, and we were still expecting to see some of them turn their horses, and dash inward to the butte; when we heard a signal-cry circulating through their ranks. All at once the foremost of them was seen swerving off, followed by the whole troop! Before we could recover from our surprise, they had galloped far beyond the range of our guns, and once more stood halted upon the plain!

For some time the savage horsemen continued their circling gallop around the butte—one occasionally swooping nearer; but covered by the body of his horse in such a way that it was impossible to sight him. These manoeuvres were executed by the young warriors, apparently in a spirit of bravado, and with the design of showing off their courage and equestrian skill. We disregarded the harmless demonstrations, watching them only when made in the direction of our animals. At intervals a hideous face peeping over the withers of a horse, offered a tempting target. My comrades would have tried a flying shot had I not restrained them. A miss would have damaged our prestige in the eyes of the enemy. It was of importance that they should continue to believe in the infallibility of the fire-weapon.

After a time, we observed a change of tactics. The galloping slackened, and soon came to an end. The horsemen threw themselves into small groups, at nearly equal distances apart, and forming a ring round the butte. Most of the riders then dismounted, a few only remaining upon their horses, and continuing to dash backward and forward, from group to group. These groups were beyond the range of our rifles, though not of the sergeant’s musket. But the savages—both mounted and afoot—had taken care to make ramparts of their steeds. At first, this manoeuvre of our enemies appeared to have no other object than that of placing themselves in a position to guard against our retreat. A moment’s reflection, however, told us that this could not be the design. There were but two points by which we could pass down to the plain—on opposite sides of the butte—why then should theysurroundit? It could not be for the purpose of cutting off our retreat? That could be done as effectually without the circular deployment.

Their design soon became apparent. We observed that the muskets were distributed among the groups, three or four to each. With these they now opened fire upon us from all sides at once, keeping it up as fast as they could load the pieces. The effect was to render our situation a little more perilous. Not having the means to make our parapet continuous, we were at several points exposed. Had we had good marksmen to deal with, we should have been in danger. As it was, we drew well back towards the centre of the platform; and were screened by its outer angles. Now and then a shot struck the rock, sending the splinters in our faces; but all four of us escaped being hit by the bullets.

We had made an observation that rendered us uneasy: we had observed a weak point in our defence. We wondered that our assailants had not also noticed it. Around the butte, and close up to its base, lay many boulders of rock. They were prisms of granite, that had become detached from the cairn itself, and rolled down its declivity. They rested upon the plain, forming a ring concentric with the circular base of the mound. Many of these boulders had a diameter of six feet, and would have sheltered the body of a man from our shots. Others, again, rested along the sloping sides of the butte—also of prismatic shapes, with sides overhanging. These might form ramparts for our assailants should they attempt to storm our position. Even the spreading cedars would have hidden them from our sight. They were the trailing juniper of the western wilds—very different from the Virginian cedar. They were of broad bushy forms, with stunted stems, and tortuous branches, densely set with a dark acetalous foliage. They covered the sides of the butte, from base to middle height, with a draping perfectly impenetrable to the eye. Though there was no path save that already mentioned, assailants, active as ours, might unseen have scaled the declivity. Should the Indians make a bold, dash up to the base of the butte, leave their horses, and take to the rocks, they might advance upon us without risk. While working their way up the slope, they would be safe from our shots, sheltered by the projecting prisms, and screened by the trees. We should not dare to expose ourselves over the edge of the platform: since the others, remaining behind the boulders below, would cover us with their aim; and the shower of arrows would insure our destruction. Those who might scale the mound, would have us at their mercy. Assailing us simultaneously from all sides, and springing suddenly upon the platform, ten to one against us, they could soon overpower us.

These were the observations we had made, and the reflections that resulted from them. We only wondered that our enemies had not yet perceived the advantage of this plan of attack; and, since they had neglected it so long, we were in hopes that the idea would not occur to them at all. It was not long before we perceived our error; and that we had miscalculated the cunning of our dusky foes. We saw the Indians once more taking to their horses. Some order had reached them from the Red-Hand, who stood conspicuous in the midst of the largest group of his warriors. The movement that resulted from this order was similar to that already practised in the endeavour to stampede our animals: only that all the band took part in it—even the chiefs mounting and riding among the rest. The marksmenaloneremained afoot, and continued to fire from behind their horses.

Once more the mounted warriors commence galloping in circles round the butte. We perceive that at each wheel they are coming nearer, and can divine their intent. It is the very plan of attack we have been apprehending! We can tell by their gestures that they are about to charge forward to the rocks.

Regardless of the fire from the plain, we creep back to the edge of the parapet, and point our pieces towards the circling horsemen. We are excited with, new apprehensions; but the caution to keep cool is once more passed around; and each resolves not to fire without being certain of his aim. On our first shots will depend the success or failure of the attack. As before, we arrange that two only shall fire at a time. If the shots prove true, and two of our foes fall to them, it may check the charge, perhaps repulse it altogether? Such often happens with an onset of Indians—on whom the dread of the fire-weapon acts with a mysterious effect. On the other hand, if we miss, our fate is sealed and certain. We shall not even have the choice of that last desperate resort, on which we have built a hope. We shall be cut off from all escape: for our animals will be gone before we can reach them. On foot, it will be idle to attempt flight. Even could we run the gauntlet through their line, we know they could overtake us upon the plain!

We feel like men about to throw dice for our lives, and dice too that are loaded against us! Nearer and nearer they come, until they are coursing within fifty yards of the butte, and scarcely twice that distance from our guns. Were their bodies uncovered, we could reach them; but we see only their hands, feet, and faces—the latter only at intervals. They draw nearer and nearer, till at length they are riding within the circle of danger. Our superior elevation gives us the advantage. We begin to see their bodies over the backs of their horses. A little nearer yet, and some of these horses will go riderless over the plain! Ha! they have perceived their danger—one and all of them. Notwithstanding their cries of bravado, and mutual encouragement, they dread to make the final rush. Each fears that himself may be the victim!

Our heads were growing dizzy with watching them, and we were still expecting to see some of them turn their horses, and dash inward to the butte; when we heard a signal-cry circulating through their ranks. All at once the foremost of them was seen swerving off, followed by the whole troop! Before we could recover from our surprise, they had galloped far beyond the range of our guns, and once more stood halted upon the plain!

Chapter Fifty Eight.A Rampart on Wheels.For a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of apprehension was removed. We fancied the savages had either not yet become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from making the attempt. They had abandoned their design, whatever it was; and intended waiting for night—the favourite fighting-time of the Indian. This was just what we desired; and we were congratulating ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour. Our joy was short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose. Clustered upon the plain, they still kept to their horses. By this, we knew that some other movement was intended. The chiefs were again in the centre of the crowd, the Red-Hand conspicuous. He was heard haranguing his warriors, though we could not guess the purport of his speech. His gestures told of fierce rage—his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened a spirit of implacable vengeance. At the conclusion of his speech, he waved his hand in the direction of the waggon. The gesture appeared to be the accompaniment of a command. It was promptly and instantly obeyed. A dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off. Their course was straight up the valley—towards the scene of their late strife. Those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were seen giving their horses to the grass. This might have led us to anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not. The attitude of our enemies was not that of purposed repose. On the contrary, they came together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager consultation. The chiefs spoke in turn. Some new scheme was being discussed. We watched the party who had ridden off. As anticipated, the waggon proved to be thebuttof their excursion. Having reached it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it. It is impossible for some time to tell what they are doing. Even the glass does not reveal the nature of their movements. There are others besides those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark cluster of men and horses. Their errand at length becomes obvious. The crowd is seen to scatter. Horses appear harnessed to the tongue—the wheels are in motion—the vehicle is turning round upon the plain. We see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon their backs as teamsters! They make a wheel, and head down the valley in the direction of the butte. They are seen urging the animals into a rapid pace. The waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth sward. The horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough rapidity of a mountain howitzer. In a few minutes, it advances to the ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its arrival.We upon the summit have a full view of all. We recognise the well-known Troy waggon—with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof. The lettering, “Troy, New York,” is legible on the tilt—a strange sight in the midst of its present possessors! What can be their object with the waggon? Their actions leave us not long in doubt. The horses are unharnessed and led aside. Half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes. As many more stand behind—screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing. The pole projects in the direction of the mound!Their object is now too painfully apparent. Without thinking of the analogy of the Trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern Troy is about to be employed for a similar purpose. Yes—shielded by the thick planking of its bed—by its head and hind boards—by its canvas covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety. Such is their design. With dismay, we perceive it. We can do nought either to retard or hinder its execution. Those under the vehicle can “spoke” the wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim. Even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets hang over, draping the wheels from our view. Those behind are equally well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger. We note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension. We adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none is possible. We are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness.We are allowed but little time to reflect upon it. Amidst the shouts of the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in motion! Onward it comes toward the mound—advancing with apparently spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster—some horrid mammoth—approaching to destroy and devour us!Had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us with a greater dread. We felt that our destruction was equally certain. The savages would now surround us—advance up the rocks—spring upon us from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death—which we had determined to do—still must we die. The knowledge that we should die fighting, and with arms in our hands—that we should fall upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with life—this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us. Though no cowards—not one of us—we could not look forward to our fate, without a feeling of dread. The certainty of that fate we could no longer question. Even the time seemed to be fixed. In a few minutes, the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last struggle of our lives—without the slightest probability of being able to save them!

For a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of apprehension was removed. We fancied the savages had either not yet become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from making the attempt. They had abandoned their design, whatever it was; and intended waiting for night—the favourite fighting-time of the Indian. This was just what we desired; and we were congratulating ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour. Our joy was short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose. Clustered upon the plain, they still kept to their horses. By this, we knew that some other movement was intended. The chiefs were again in the centre of the crowd, the Red-Hand conspicuous. He was heard haranguing his warriors, though we could not guess the purport of his speech. His gestures told of fierce rage—his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened a spirit of implacable vengeance. At the conclusion of his speech, he waved his hand in the direction of the waggon. The gesture appeared to be the accompaniment of a command. It was promptly and instantly obeyed. A dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off. Their course was straight up the valley—towards the scene of their late strife. Those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were seen giving their horses to the grass. This might have led us to anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not. The attitude of our enemies was not that of purposed repose. On the contrary, they came together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager consultation. The chiefs spoke in turn. Some new scheme was being discussed. We watched the party who had ridden off. As anticipated, the waggon proved to be thebuttof their excursion. Having reached it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it. It is impossible for some time to tell what they are doing. Even the glass does not reveal the nature of their movements. There are others besides those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark cluster of men and horses. Their errand at length becomes obvious. The crowd is seen to scatter. Horses appear harnessed to the tongue—the wheels are in motion—the vehicle is turning round upon the plain. We see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon their backs as teamsters! They make a wheel, and head down the valley in the direction of the butte. They are seen urging the animals into a rapid pace. The waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth sward. The horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough rapidity of a mountain howitzer. In a few minutes, it advances to the ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its arrival.

We upon the summit have a full view of all. We recognise the well-known Troy waggon—with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof. The lettering, “Troy, New York,” is legible on the tilt—a strange sight in the midst of its present possessors! What can be their object with the waggon? Their actions leave us not long in doubt. The horses are unharnessed and led aside. Half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes. As many more stand behind—screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing. The pole projects in the direction of the mound!

Their object is now too painfully apparent. Without thinking of the analogy of the Trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern Troy is about to be employed for a similar purpose. Yes—shielded by the thick planking of its bed—by its head and hind boards—by its canvas covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety. Such is their design. With dismay, we perceive it. We can do nought either to retard or hinder its execution. Those under the vehicle can “spoke” the wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim. Even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets hang over, draping the wheels from our view. Those behind are equally well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger. We note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension. We adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none is possible. We are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness.

We are allowed but little time to reflect upon it. Amidst the shouts of the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in motion! Onward it comes toward the mound—advancing with apparently spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster—some horrid mammoth—approaching to destroy and devour us!

Had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us with a greater dread. We felt that our destruction was equally certain. The savages would now surround us—advance up the rocks—spring upon us from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death—which we had determined to do—still must we die. The knowledge that we should die fighting, and with arms in our hands—that we should fall upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with life—this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us. Though no cowards—not one of us—we could not look forward to our fate, without a feeling of dread. The certainty of that fate we could no longer question. Even the time seemed to be fixed. In a few minutes, the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last struggle of our lives—without the slightest probability of being able to save them!

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