Chapter Eighteen.The Stalkers Astonished.Making their way up the steep mountain-path, climbing over fallen tree-trunks, obstructed by thicket and scaur, the trappers at length got close to the cliff which, as ’Lije Orton had told them, looked down on the camping-place of the Cheyennes.They had ceased talking aloud, and communicated with one another only in whispers. There was a deathlike stillness in the pure mountain air, and they knew that the slightest sound might make known their approach to the enemy.They had thrown themselves into a deployed line, after the manner of skirmishers, crouching silently among the stunted pines, and gliding rapidly forward where the ground was without cover. Orton was directing them by signs; O’Neil stepping close by his side, and near enough for the slightest whisper to be heard between them.The young Irishman still kept impatiently urging the advance. Every moment of delay seemed a month to the heart of the lover. Over and over again came before his mind that hideous picture his fancy had painted—Clara Blackadder struggling in the embrace of a savage! And that savage the Yellow Chief of the Cheyennes!These fancies were like the waves of a tempestuous sea, following one another at intervals. As each rose grimly before him, he came near groaning aloud. He was only restrained by knowing the necessity for silence. As a relief he kept constantly whispering to his old comrade, and urging him to a more rapid advance.“Dod rot it, Ned!” replied the latter; “don’t be so hurrified ’bout it. We’ll git theer in good time, take this chile’s word for it. Theer’s been plenty o’ licker in the emigrant wagons, I guess. Them Massissippy planters don’t offen go travellin’ ’thout a good stock o’ corn. An’ as for the Injuns, they ain’t a-goin’ to trouble theerselves ’bout weemen as long ’s the licker lasts. Don’t you be uneezy; we’ll git up time enuf to purtect the gurl, an’ chestise the skunks has ev captered her; you see if we don’t.”“But why go creeping this way? Once upon the cliff, we must declare ourselves. We can’t get down among them, as you say; and since it must all be done with our rifles, the first shot will discover us.”“So it will; diskiver us to a sartinty. But theer’s jest the pint. That fust shot must be deelivered by all o’ us at the same instinck o’ time. Unless we make alattero’ them, as the French trappers call it, they’d be off in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail, prehaps takin’ thar prisners along wi’ ’em. An’ whar ’ud we be to foller ’em? Thurfor, we must fix things so’st’ every one may take sight on a different Injun at the same time; an’ then, afore they kin git clar out o’ the gully, we’ll be loaded for a second shot. I guess that’ll make ’em think o’ somethin’ else than toatin’ off thar captives. Keep yur patience, young fellur! Trust to ole ’Lije Orton, when he sez yur gurl air still safe an’ soun’.”The anxious lover, despite his anxiety, could not help feeling confidence in the words thus whispered. More than once had he seen ’Lije Orton acting under circumstances of a like trying nature, and as often coming out triumphant. With an effort he restrained his impatience, and imitated the cautious approach of his comrade.They were soon sufficiently near the edge of the cliff to hear a murmur of voices rising up out of the valley. As the ears of all were well attuned to such sounds, they knew them to be the voices of Indians. And these could be no other than Yellow Chief, and his band of marauders.A halt was made; and a hurried council held, about the best mode of making attack.“There must be ne’er a noise among ye,” whispered ’Lije, “not the speakin’ o’ a word, till we’ve got one fire at ’em. Then churge yur rifles agen, quick’s ever you kin. Two sets o’ shots oughter thin ’em, so as they won’t mind ’beout thar captives, nor any thin’ else, ’ceptin’ to streak it—that air, sech as be left o’ ’em.”This counsel was delivered in a whisper, and in the same way passed along the line.“Only one half o’ ye fire at a time,” continued ’Lije. “You fellurs on the left shoot first. Let the tothers resarve for the second volley. ’Twon’t do to waste two bullets on the same redskin. Leave Yellow Chief to me. I hev got a ole score to settle wi’ that Injun.”With these precautions, communicated from left to right, the trappers once more advanced—no longer as skirmishers, but in line, and as near to one another as the inequality of the ground would permit.They could now hear the voice of a man, who talked loudly and in a tone of authority. They could even make out some of the words, for they were in English!This gave them a surprise; but they had scarce time to think of it, when there arose a chorus of cries, uttered in quick sharp intonation, that told of some unusual occurrence. Among these were the screams of women.At the same instant the trampling of hoofs resounded along the rocks, as if a horse was going off at a gallop over the hard turf of the prairie. Then succeeded another chorus of yells—a confused din—and soon after the pattering of many hoofs, as of a whole troop of horses following the first.The sound, reaching the ears of the trappers, carried their eyes out toward the plain; where they beheld a sight that caused one and all of them wild throbbings of the heart. Upon the prairie, just clearing the scarped edge of the cliff, was a woman on horseback. At a glance they could tell it was a young girl; but as her back was toward them, they could see neither face nor features. She was in a lady’s saddle; and urging her horse onward as if riding for life—her skirt and hair streaming loosely behind her.There was one among them that knew who she was. The quick instinct of love told Edward O’Neil well the fugitive upon horseback was Clara Blackadder. His instincts were aided by remembrance. That magnificent head of hair, black as the plumage of a raven, was well remembered by him. It had often been before his fancy in a lone bivouac—at night entwining itself with his dreams.“O Heavens!” he exclaimed, “it is Clara herself!”“Yur right, Ned,” responded ’Lije, gazing intently after her. “Darned ef it ain’t her, that very gurl! She’s a-tryin’ to git away from ’em. See! thar goes the hul o’ the Injuns arter her, gallopin’ like h—!”As Orton spoke, the pursuers began to appear, one after another passing outside the cliff-line—urging their horses onward with blows and loud vociferations.Several of the trappers raised their rifles to the level, and seemed calculating the distance.“For yur lives, don’t shoot!” cautioned ’Lije, speaking in a constrained voice, and making himself better understood by a wave of the hand. “It kin do ne’er a good now, but only spile all. Let ’em go off. Ef the gurl gits clur, we’ll soon track her up. Ef she don’t, they’re boun’ to bring her back, an’ then we kin settle wi’ ’em. I reck’n they’re not all arter her. Theer’s some o’ the skunks still below. Let’s jest see to them; an’ then we kin lay out our plans for them’s have rid out in the purshoot.”’Lije’s counsel was unanimously accepted, and the gun-barrels brought down again.“Lie clost hyur,” he again counselled, “while some o’ us steal forard an’ reconnoitre. Harry, s’pose you kum ’longs wi’ me?”His purpose was understood by Black Harris, who instantly volunteered to accompany the old trapper—his senior in years, and his equal in rank among the “mountain men.”“Now, boys!” muttered ’Lije on leaving them, “lie close as I’ve tolt you, and ne’er a word out o’ one o’ ye till we git back.”So saying, he crept forward, Black Harris by his side—the two going on hands and knees, and with as much caution as if they had been approaching a herd of antelopes.The glance of the others did not follow them. All eyes were turned downward to the prairie; watching the pursuit, now far off and still going farther across the open plain.But no one watched with such anxiety as O’Neil. It absorbed his whole soul, like some pent-up agony. His very breathing seemed suspended, as he crouched behind the dwarf cedar-tree, calculating the distance between pursuers and pursued. How he regretted having left his horse behind him! What would he not have given at that moment to be on the back of his brave steed, and galloping to the rescue of his beloved!Perhaps his suffering would have been still more acute, but for the words just spoken by his old comrade. The girl would either get off, or be brought back; and either way there was hope of saving her. With this thought to console him, he witnessed the spectacle of the pursuit with more equanimity. So, watching it with eager eyes, he awaited the result of the reconnoissance.Crouching slowly and cautiously along, Orton and Harris at length reached the edge of the cliff, and looked down into the valley below. A glance enabled them to comprehend the situation. It was just as they had conjectured. The white and negro captives seen in separate groups, guarded by something less than a moiety of the Indian band, and these reeling over the ground half intoxicated.“They’ll be a eezy capter now,” said ’Lije, “and we must capter ’em. Arter that, we kin kill ’em ’ithout much noise.”“Why not bring up the rest, and shoot ’em whar they stand? We can rub out every redskin of ’em at a single volley.”“Sartin we could; but don’t ye see, old hoss, that ’ud niver do. Ye forget the gurl; an she are the only one ’o the hul lot wuth savin’, I reckin; the only one I’d give a darn to waste powder for. Ef we wur to fire a shot, the purshooers out yonner ’ud be surtin to hear it, and then good-bye to the gurl—that is, if they git their claws on her agin.”“I see what you mean; an you’re right. We must bag this lot below, without makin a rumpus; then we can set our traps for the others.”“Jess so, Harry.”“How are we to do it, think ye, ’Lije? We’ll have to go back to whar we left our horses, and ride round by the open eend of the valley. That way we’ll have them shut up like sheep in a pen.”“No, Harry; we han’t time to go back for the anymals. Afore we ked git roun’ thar, the purshooers mout catch the gurl and be comin’ back. Then it ’ud be no go. I bethinks me o’ a better way.”Black Harris waited to hear what it was.“I know a pass,” continued ’Lije, “by the which we may git down wi’ a leetle streetchin’ o’ the arms. If we kin only reech bottom afore they sees us, we’ll make short work o’ ’em. But we must be cunnin’ beout it. Ef but a one o’ the skunks hev the chance to eescape, the gurl’ll be lost sure. Thar aint a second o’ time to be wasted. Let’s back to the boys, an at oncest down inter the gully.”
Making their way up the steep mountain-path, climbing over fallen tree-trunks, obstructed by thicket and scaur, the trappers at length got close to the cliff which, as ’Lije Orton had told them, looked down on the camping-place of the Cheyennes.
They had ceased talking aloud, and communicated with one another only in whispers. There was a deathlike stillness in the pure mountain air, and they knew that the slightest sound might make known their approach to the enemy.
They had thrown themselves into a deployed line, after the manner of skirmishers, crouching silently among the stunted pines, and gliding rapidly forward where the ground was without cover. Orton was directing them by signs; O’Neil stepping close by his side, and near enough for the slightest whisper to be heard between them.
The young Irishman still kept impatiently urging the advance. Every moment of delay seemed a month to the heart of the lover. Over and over again came before his mind that hideous picture his fancy had painted—Clara Blackadder struggling in the embrace of a savage! And that savage the Yellow Chief of the Cheyennes!
These fancies were like the waves of a tempestuous sea, following one another at intervals. As each rose grimly before him, he came near groaning aloud. He was only restrained by knowing the necessity for silence. As a relief he kept constantly whispering to his old comrade, and urging him to a more rapid advance.
“Dod rot it, Ned!” replied the latter; “don’t be so hurrified ’bout it. We’ll git theer in good time, take this chile’s word for it. Theer’s been plenty o’ licker in the emigrant wagons, I guess. Them Massissippy planters don’t offen go travellin’ ’thout a good stock o’ corn. An’ as for the Injuns, they ain’t a-goin’ to trouble theerselves ’bout weemen as long ’s the licker lasts. Don’t you be uneezy; we’ll git up time enuf to purtect the gurl, an’ chestise the skunks has ev captered her; you see if we don’t.”
“But why go creeping this way? Once upon the cliff, we must declare ourselves. We can’t get down among them, as you say; and since it must all be done with our rifles, the first shot will discover us.”
“So it will; diskiver us to a sartinty. But theer’s jest the pint. That fust shot must be deelivered by all o’ us at the same instinck o’ time. Unless we make alattero’ them, as the French trappers call it, they’d be off in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail, prehaps takin’ thar prisners along wi’ ’em. An’ whar ’ud we be to foller ’em? Thurfor, we must fix things so’st’ every one may take sight on a different Injun at the same time; an’ then, afore they kin git clar out o’ the gully, we’ll be loaded for a second shot. I guess that’ll make ’em think o’ somethin’ else than toatin’ off thar captives. Keep yur patience, young fellur! Trust to ole ’Lije Orton, when he sez yur gurl air still safe an’ soun’.”
The anxious lover, despite his anxiety, could not help feeling confidence in the words thus whispered. More than once had he seen ’Lije Orton acting under circumstances of a like trying nature, and as often coming out triumphant. With an effort he restrained his impatience, and imitated the cautious approach of his comrade.
They were soon sufficiently near the edge of the cliff to hear a murmur of voices rising up out of the valley. As the ears of all were well attuned to such sounds, they knew them to be the voices of Indians. And these could be no other than Yellow Chief, and his band of marauders.
A halt was made; and a hurried council held, about the best mode of making attack.
“There must be ne’er a noise among ye,” whispered ’Lije, “not the speakin’ o’ a word, till we’ve got one fire at ’em. Then churge yur rifles agen, quick’s ever you kin. Two sets o’ shots oughter thin ’em, so as they won’t mind ’beout thar captives, nor any thin’ else, ’ceptin’ to streak it—that air, sech as be left o’ ’em.”
This counsel was delivered in a whisper, and in the same way passed along the line.
“Only one half o’ ye fire at a time,” continued ’Lije. “You fellurs on the left shoot first. Let the tothers resarve for the second volley. ’Twon’t do to waste two bullets on the same redskin. Leave Yellow Chief to me. I hev got a ole score to settle wi’ that Injun.”
With these precautions, communicated from left to right, the trappers once more advanced—no longer as skirmishers, but in line, and as near to one another as the inequality of the ground would permit.
They could now hear the voice of a man, who talked loudly and in a tone of authority. They could even make out some of the words, for they were in English!
This gave them a surprise; but they had scarce time to think of it, when there arose a chorus of cries, uttered in quick sharp intonation, that told of some unusual occurrence. Among these were the screams of women.
At the same instant the trampling of hoofs resounded along the rocks, as if a horse was going off at a gallop over the hard turf of the prairie. Then succeeded another chorus of yells—a confused din—and soon after the pattering of many hoofs, as of a whole troop of horses following the first.
The sound, reaching the ears of the trappers, carried their eyes out toward the plain; where they beheld a sight that caused one and all of them wild throbbings of the heart. Upon the prairie, just clearing the scarped edge of the cliff, was a woman on horseback. At a glance they could tell it was a young girl; but as her back was toward them, they could see neither face nor features. She was in a lady’s saddle; and urging her horse onward as if riding for life—her skirt and hair streaming loosely behind her.
There was one among them that knew who she was. The quick instinct of love told Edward O’Neil well the fugitive upon horseback was Clara Blackadder. His instincts were aided by remembrance. That magnificent head of hair, black as the plumage of a raven, was well remembered by him. It had often been before his fancy in a lone bivouac—at night entwining itself with his dreams.
“O Heavens!” he exclaimed, “it is Clara herself!”
“Yur right, Ned,” responded ’Lije, gazing intently after her. “Darned ef it ain’t her, that very gurl! She’s a-tryin’ to git away from ’em. See! thar goes the hul o’ the Injuns arter her, gallopin’ like h—!”
As Orton spoke, the pursuers began to appear, one after another passing outside the cliff-line—urging their horses onward with blows and loud vociferations.
Several of the trappers raised their rifles to the level, and seemed calculating the distance.
“For yur lives, don’t shoot!” cautioned ’Lije, speaking in a constrained voice, and making himself better understood by a wave of the hand. “It kin do ne’er a good now, but only spile all. Let ’em go off. Ef the gurl gits clur, we’ll soon track her up. Ef she don’t, they’re boun’ to bring her back, an’ then we kin settle wi’ ’em. I reck’n they’re not all arter her. Theer’s some o’ the skunks still below. Let’s jest see to them; an’ then we kin lay out our plans for them’s have rid out in the purshoot.”
’Lije’s counsel was unanimously accepted, and the gun-barrels brought down again.
“Lie clost hyur,” he again counselled, “while some o’ us steal forard an’ reconnoitre. Harry, s’pose you kum ’longs wi’ me?”
His purpose was understood by Black Harris, who instantly volunteered to accompany the old trapper—his senior in years, and his equal in rank among the “mountain men.”
“Now, boys!” muttered ’Lije on leaving them, “lie close as I’ve tolt you, and ne’er a word out o’ one o’ ye till we git back.”
So saying, he crept forward, Black Harris by his side—the two going on hands and knees, and with as much caution as if they had been approaching a herd of antelopes.
The glance of the others did not follow them. All eyes were turned downward to the prairie; watching the pursuit, now far off and still going farther across the open plain.
But no one watched with such anxiety as O’Neil. It absorbed his whole soul, like some pent-up agony. His very breathing seemed suspended, as he crouched behind the dwarf cedar-tree, calculating the distance between pursuers and pursued. How he regretted having left his horse behind him! What would he not have given at that moment to be on the back of his brave steed, and galloping to the rescue of his beloved!
Perhaps his suffering would have been still more acute, but for the words just spoken by his old comrade. The girl would either get off, or be brought back; and either way there was hope of saving her. With this thought to console him, he witnessed the spectacle of the pursuit with more equanimity. So, watching it with eager eyes, he awaited the result of the reconnoissance.
Crouching slowly and cautiously along, Orton and Harris at length reached the edge of the cliff, and looked down into the valley below. A glance enabled them to comprehend the situation. It was just as they had conjectured. The white and negro captives seen in separate groups, guarded by something less than a moiety of the Indian band, and these reeling over the ground half intoxicated.
“They’ll be a eezy capter now,” said ’Lije, “and we must capter ’em. Arter that, we kin kill ’em ’ithout much noise.”
“Why not bring up the rest, and shoot ’em whar they stand? We can rub out every redskin of ’em at a single volley.”
“Sartin we could; but don’t ye see, old hoss, that ’ud niver do. Ye forget the gurl; an she are the only one ’o the hul lot wuth savin’, I reckin; the only one I’d give a darn to waste powder for. Ef we wur to fire a shot, the purshooers out yonner ’ud be surtin to hear it, and then good-bye to the gurl—that is, if they git their claws on her agin.”
“I see what you mean; an you’re right. We must bag this lot below, without makin a rumpus; then we can set our traps for the others.”
“Jess so, Harry.”
“How are we to do it, think ye, ’Lije? We’ll have to go back to whar we left our horses, and ride round by the open eend of the valley. That way we’ll have them shut up like sheep in a pen.”
“No, Harry; we han’t time to go back for the anymals. Afore we ked git roun’ thar, the purshooers mout catch the gurl and be comin’ back. Then it ’ud be no go. I bethinks me o’ a better way.”
Black Harris waited to hear what it was.
“I know a pass,” continued ’Lije, “by the which we may git down wi’ a leetle streetchin’ o’ the arms. If we kin only reech bottom afore they sees us, we’ll make short work o’ ’em. But we must be cunnin’ beout it. Ef but a one o’ the skunks hev the chance to eescape, the gurl’ll be lost sure. Thar aint a second o’ time to be wasted. Let’s back to the boys, an at oncest down inter the gully.”
Chapter Nineteen.Setting a Strange Scene.Retreating from the edge of the cliff with the same caution as they had approached it, the two mountain men rejoined their companions in ambush. ’Lije, after making known his design, led them toward the pass of which he had spoken—a sloping ravine, the same up which Snively had made his vain attempt at escaping.Screened by the scrub-cedars, the trapper party succeeded in descending it, without being perceived either by the Indians below, or the captives over whom these were keeping but careless watch.Their sudden appearance upon the plain was a surprise to both: to the latter a joyful sight; to the former a terrible apparition—for they saw in it the quick harbinger of death.Not a shot was fired by the assailants. On the moment of their feet touching the plain, they flung aside their guns; and, drawing daggers and knives, went at the Indian sentinels, in a hurried but silent slaughter.There was grappling, struggling, and shouts; but the attacking party outnumbered those attacked; and in less than ten minutes’ time the shouting ceased—since there was not a living Indian upon the ground to continue it. Instead was the green meadow sward strewn with dead bodies, every one of them showing a bronze-coloured skin, horribly enamelled with gashes or gouts of crimson blood!The captives were in raptures of joy. They saw that their rescue was complete. The whites, both men and women, sprang to their feet, and struggled with their fastenings—wishing to have their arms free in order to embrace their preservers; while the negroes, none of whom were bound, came pouring forth out of thecul-de-sac, where they had been hitherto penned up, uttering frenzied shouts.“Keep yur groun’ an’ stop yur durned shoutin’!” cried ’Lije, with a gesture waving them back. “Don’t one ’o ye stir out o’ yur places. Back, back, I say! Stay as ye wur, till we gie ye the word. An’ you alser,” he continued, running to the other side and checking the forward movement of the whites, “hunker down jest as ye did afore. We haint finished this show bizness yit. Thar’s another scene o’ it to kum.”Both negroes and whites were a little surprised, at being thus restrained from the full ebullition of their joy. But the earnest tone of the old trapper, sustained as it was by the gestures of his companions, had its effect upon them; and all at once cowered back into their original position. What was the intention they could not guess; but, released from the agony of fear, they were willing to wait for it with patience.They soon beheld a spectacle, so strange as almost to restore them to terrified thought. They saw the dead bodies of the Indians raised from their recumbent position; set up beside their long spears, that had been previously planted in the ground; and lashed to these in such a manner as to sustain them in an erect attitude. There were distributed here and there over the sward, most of them close to the captives, as if still keeping guard over them! Those not so disposed of were dragged off, and hidden away behind the large boulders of rock that lay along the base of the cliff.“Now!” thundered the old trapper, addressing his speech to the captives, white as well as black, “ef one o’ ye stir from the spot ye’re in, or venturs to show sign o’ anythin’ thet’s tuk place, till ye git the word from me, ye’ll hev a rifle bullet sent plum through ye. The gurl hez got to be rescooed ’ithout harm done to her; an’ I reck’n she’s wuth more than the hul o’ ye thegither. Thar’s but one way o’ savin’ her, an’ thet’s by yur keepin’ yur heads shet up, an’ yur karkidges ’ithout stirrin’ as much as a finger. So don’t make neery movement, ef ye vally yur preecious lives. Ye unnerstan’ me?”The captives were too much controlled to make rejoinder; but they saw, by the earnestness of the old trapper, that his commands were to be obeyed; and silently resolved to obey them.After delivering the speech, ’Lije turned toward his trapper companions—all of whom knew what was meant; and who, without waiting word or sign, rushed toward their rifles—still lying on the ground.In a few seconds they had regained them; and, in less than five minutes after, not a trapper was to be seen about the place. They had disappeared as suddenly as sprites in a pantomime; and the little valley seemed suddenly restored to the state in which it had been left, when the pursuers of Clara Blackadder swept out of it. Any one glancing into it at that moment could have had no other thought, than that it contained the captives of an emigrant train, with their Indian captors keeping guard over them.
Retreating from the edge of the cliff with the same caution as they had approached it, the two mountain men rejoined their companions in ambush. ’Lije, after making known his design, led them toward the pass of which he had spoken—a sloping ravine, the same up which Snively had made his vain attempt at escaping.
Screened by the scrub-cedars, the trapper party succeeded in descending it, without being perceived either by the Indians below, or the captives over whom these were keeping but careless watch.
Their sudden appearance upon the plain was a surprise to both: to the latter a joyful sight; to the former a terrible apparition—for they saw in it the quick harbinger of death.
Not a shot was fired by the assailants. On the moment of their feet touching the plain, they flung aside their guns; and, drawing daggers and knives, went at the Indian sentinels, in a hurried but silent slaughter.
There was grappling, struggling, and shouts; but the attacking party outnumbered those attacked; and in less than ten minutes’ time the shouting ceased—since there was not a living Indian upon the ground to continue it. Instead was the green meadow sward strewn with dead bodies, every one of them showing a bronze-coloured skin, horribly enamelled with gashes or gouts of crimson blood!
The captives were in raptures of joy. They saw that their rescue was complete. The whites, both men and women, sprang to their feet, and struggled with their fastenings—wishing to have their arms free in order to embrace their preservers; while the negroes, none of whom were bound, came pouring forth out of thecul-de-sac, where they had been hitherto penned up, uttering frenzied shouts.
“Keep yur groun’ an’ stop yur durned shoutin’!” cried ’Lije, with a gesture waving them back. “Don’t one ’o ye stir out o’ yur places. Back, back, I say! Stay as ye wur, till we gie ye the word. An’ you alser,” he continued, running to the other side and checking the forward movement of the whites, “hunker down jest as ye did afore. We haint finished this show bizness yit. Thar’s another scene o’ it to kum.”
Both negroes and whites were a little surprised, at being thus restrained from the full ebullition of their joy. But the earnest tone of the old trapper, sustained as it was by the gestures of his companions, had its effect upon them; and all at once cowered back into their original position. What was the intention they could not guess; but, released from the agony of fear, they were willing to wait for it with patience.
They soon beheld a spectacle, so strange as almost to restore them to terrified thought. They saw the dead bodies of the Indians raised from their recumbent position; set up beside their long spears, that had been previously planted in the ground; and lashed to these in such a manner as to sustain them in an erect attitude. There were distributed here and there over the sward, most of them close to the captives, as if still keeping guard over them! Those not so disposed of were dragged off, and hidden away behind the large boulders of rock that lay along the base of the cliff.
“Now!” thundered the old trapper, addressing his speech to the captives, white as well as black, “ef one o’ ye stir from the spot ye’re in, or venturs to show sign o’ anythin’ thet’s tuk place, till ye git the word from me, ye’ll hev a rifle bullet sent plum through ye. The gurl hez got to be rescooed ’ithout harm done to her; an’ I reck’n she’s wuth more than the hul o’ ye thegither. Thar’s but one way o’ savin’ her, an’ thet’s by yur keepin’ yur heads shet up, an’ yur karkidges ’ithout stirrin’ as much as a finger. So don’t make neery movement, ef ye vally yur preecious lives. Ye unnerstan’ me?”
The captives were too much controlled to make rejoinder; but they saw, by the earnestness of the old trapper, that his commands were to be obeyed; and silently resolved to obey them.
After delivering the speech, ’Lije turned toward his trapper companions—all of whom knew what was meant; and who, without waiting word or sign, rushed toward their rifles—still lying on the ground.
In a few seconds they had regained them; and, in less than five minutes after, not a trapper was to be seen about the place. They had disappeared as suddenly as sprites in a pantomime; and the little valley seemed suddenly restored to the state in which it had been left, when the pursuers of Clara Blackadder swept out of it. Any one glancing into it at that moment could have had no other thought, than that it contained the captives of an emigrant train, with their Indian captors keeping guard over them.
Chapter Twenty.A Ride for more than Life.Nerved by the fear of a terrible fate, did the escaping captive urge forward her swift horse, encouraging the animal both with words and caresses.He knew her voice, and did his best. He seemed to know, also, why he was thus put to the top of his speed, for under such circumstances the horse seems to be stirred by something more than instinct.The one ridden by Clara Blackadder was a hunter, of the best Kentucky breed, and might have distanced any of the mustangs mounted by the Indians.But there was another of the same race among his pursuers—one superior in size, strength, and swiftness even to himself. It was the horse that had belonged to the young lady’s brother, appropriated by Blue Dick, and now following with the mulatto upon his back.She did not know who. She only knew that one of the pursuers was coming close after her, and saw that the rest had fallen far behind. But, to her terror, she saw that this single horseman was gradually gaining upon her.Had she been a strong man and armed, she might have reined up, and given him combat. But she knew that the weakest of the Indian warriors would be more than a match for her: and, if overtaken, she must succumb.There was no hope for her, but in the swiftness of her horse; and once more she spoke words of encouragement, patting him on the neck with her little hands, while striking the heel of her tiny boot against his sides.The Kentucky blood, answering to this urgency, did his best; and galloped onward, as if his own life, as well as that of the rider, depended upon his speed.It was all to no purpose. Ere the fleeing girl had made another mile across the prairie, the close clattering of hoofs gave warning that the pursuer was rapidly drawing near; and, giving a glance black, she saw him within less than a hundred lengths from the heels of her own horse.She saw, besides, what rendered her fears yet more agonising, that it was no Indian who was thus hotly pursuing her, but a man in a cotton shirt—he who was once a slave on her father’s plantation. It was the Yellow Chief divested of his Indian habiliments, whom now, from what she had heard, she must believe to be her brother.And a brother so cruel—so unnatural! She trembled at the thought of the encounter!It could not be avoided. In ten minutes more he was riding by her side.Clutching the bridle-rein of her horse, he drew the animal down upon its haunches—at once putting an end to the pursuit.“No, no, Miss Clarey!” he tauntingly cried out, “you shan’t escape me so easily. You and I don’t part company, till you’ve served me and mine as I’ve served you and yours. It makes no matter if Iamyour brother, as Old Nan says. You’ve got to come back with me, and see howyou’lllike being a slave. We keep slaves among the Indians, just as you proud planters of Mississippi. Come along with me, and see!”The young lady offered no resistance; nor did she say a word in reply. From what she had already seen and experienced, she knew it would be idle; and resigning the rein, she permitted her horse to be controlled by him who had so easily overtaken her.Turning about upon the prairie, captor and captive commenced retracing their tracks; the former sitting erect in his saddle, exultant of success; the latter with bent attitude, and eyes regarding the ground in a look of despair.The Indians soon came up with their chief; and the captive was conducted back toward the scene where she had witnessed so much suffering.And what was to behertorture? She could not tell. She did not even think of it. Her spirit was crushed beyond the power of reflection.The chase had occupied about half an hour. It took over twice the time for the Indians to return. The sun had already sunk low over the ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and it was twilight within the little valley. But, as they advanced, there was light enough for them to distinguish the other captives still lying on the grass, and their comrades keeping guard over them.So thought the Yellow Chief, as, on reaching the crest of the ridge that ran transversely across the entrance, he glanced up the gorge, and saw the different groups to all appearance as he had left them.Riding in the front, he was about to descend the slope, when an exclamation from the rear caused him to rein up, and look back.Several of the Indians, who had also mounted the ridge, were seen halted upon its summit, as if something was causing them surprise or alarm.It could not be anything seen in the encampment. Their faces were not turned in that direction, but along the mountain line to the northward.The chief, suddenly wheeling about, trotted back to the summit; and there saw what was causing surprise to his followers, and what now, also, astonished himself. Making out from the mountain, and scattering over the prairie, was a troop of horses without riders. In such a place they might have passed for wild steeds, with some mules among them, for they saw also these. But they were near enough nor to be mistaken formustangs.Besides, it was seen that they all carried saddles on their backs, and bridles over their necks—the reins of most of them trailing down to the grass.The red marauders knew at a glance what it meant. It could be nothing else than thecavalladaof some camp that had “stampeded.”An encampment of whites, or men of their own colour? This was the question that, for a while, occupied their attention, as they stood regarding the movements of the animals.It did not take them long to arrive at a conclusion. The strange horses, at first scampering in different directions, had wheeled back toward a common centre; and in a drove were now coming toward the spot occupied by the Indians. As they drew nearer, the style of the saddles and other riding-gear told the Cheyennes that their owners were not Indians.On first seeing them, the Yellow Chief had commanded his followers to take position behind a clump of trees standing upon the slope of the ridge, and hindering observation from the northward. There, for a time, they continued to observe the movements of the riderless horses.What seemed strange was, that there were no men following them. If escaping from a camp in broad daylight, as it still was, they should have been seen, and some attempt made to recapture them. But, as they strayed under the eyes of the Indians, no owners appeared to be after them.For some time the Cheyenne chief and his followers sat gazing upon thecavallada, and endeavouring to explain its presence.They could make nothing out of it, beyond the fact of its being a troop of stampeded animals.And these could only have come from a camp of whites; for neither the horses nor their trappings were such as are in use among Indians. There were American horses among them, very different from the mustang of the prairies.Had they got away in the night, when their owners were asleep? Not likely. Even thus they would have been trailed and overtaken. Besides, when the Indians first set eyes on them, they were galloping excitedly, as if freshly stampeded. They were now getting quieted after their scare—whatever it may have been—some of them, as they stepped along, stooping their heads to gather a mouthful of grass.To the Indians it was a tempting sight. Horse-stealing is their regular profession, and success at it one of their boasted accomplishments. A young brave, returning to his tribe with the captured horse of an enemy, is received almost with as much triumph and congratulation as if he carried the scalp of that enemy on the point of his spear.They remained in ambush only long enough to see that there were no men within sight of the straying horses; and to reflect that, even if the owners were near, they must be afoot, and therefore helpless to hinder their cattle from being captured. A dash after the drove would do it. They were all provided with their lazos, and there could be little difficulty in securing the strays, to all appearance docile, as if jaded after a long journey. With the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed through the minds of the marauders; and simultaneously they turned their eyes upon the chief, as if seeking permission to ride off in pursuit. Not only was it given, but he himself determined to lead the chase.Among his other evil passions, cupidity was one; and, by Indian law, the prize belongs to him who takes it. The chance of adding two or three fine horses to his stock was not to be slighted; and turning to one of the men who kept guard over the captive girl, he ordered him to take her on to the encampment.Then, setting the example to his followers, he rode out from behind the copse, and, at an easy pace, directed his course toward the saunteringcavallada.
Nerved by the fear of a terrible fate, did the escaping captive urge forward her swift horse, encouraging the animal both with words and caresses.
He knew her voice, and did his best. He seemed to know, also, why he was thus put to the top of his speed, for under such circumstances the horse seems to be stirred by something more than instinct.
The one ridden by Clara Blackadder was a hunter, of the best Kentucky breed, and might have distanced any of the mustangs mounted by the Indians.
But there was another of the same race among his pursuers—one superior in size, strength, and swiftness even to himself. It was the horse that had belonged to the young lady’s brother, appropriated by Blue Dick, and now following with the mulatto upon his back.
She did not know who. She only knew that one of the pursuers was coming close after her, and saw that the rest had fallen far behind. But, to her terror, she saw that this single horseman was gradually gaining upon her.
Had she been a strong man and armed, she might have reined up, and given him combat. But she knew that the weakest of the Indian warriors would be more than a match for her: and, if overtaken, she must succumb.
There was no hope for her, but in the swiftness of her horse; and once more she spoke words of encouragement, patting him on the neck with her little hands, while striking the heel of her tiny boot against his sides.
The Kentucky blood, answering to this urgency, did his best; and galloped onward, as if his own life, as well as that of the rider, depended upon his speed.
It was all to no purpose. Ere the fleeing girl had made another mile across the prairie, the close clattering of hoofs gave warning that the pursuer was rapidly drawing near; and, giving a glance black, she saw him within less than a hundred lengths from the heels of her own horse.
She saw, besides, what rendered her fears yet more agonising, that it was no Indian who was thus hotly pursuing her, but a man in a cotton shirt—he who was once a slave on her father’s plantation. It was the Yellow Chief divested of his Indian habiliments, whom now, from what she had heard, she must believe to be her brother.
And a brother so cruel—so unnatural! She trembled at the thought of the encounter!
It could not be avoided. In ten minutes more he was riding by her side.
Clutching the bridle-rein of her horse, he drew the animal down upon its haunches—at once putting an end to the pursuit.
“No, no, Miss Clarey!” he tauntingly cried out, “you shan’t escape me so easily. You and I don’t part company, till you’ve served me and mine as I’ve served you and yours. It makes no matter if Iamyour brother, as Old Nan says. You’ve got to come back with me, and see howyou’lllike being a slave. We keep slaves among the Indians, just as you proud planters of Mississippi. Come along with me, and see!”
The young lady offered no resistance; nor did she say a word in reply. From what she had already seen and experienced, she knew it would be idle; and resigning the rein, she permitted her horse to be controlled by him who had so easily overtaken her.
Turning about upon the prairie, captor and captive commenced retracing their tracks; the former sitting erect in his saddle, exultant of success; the latter with bent attitude, and eyes regarding the ground in a look of despair.
The Indians soon came up with their chief; and the captive was conducted back toward the scene where she had witnessed so much suffering.
And what was to behertorture? She could not tell. She did not even think of it. Her spirit was crushed beyond the power of reflection.
The chase had occupied about half an hour. It took over twice the time for the Indians to return. The sun had already sunk low over the ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and it was twilight within the little valley. But, as they advanced, there was light enough for them to distinguish the other captives still lying on the grass, and their comrades keeping guard over them.
So thought the Yellow Chief, as, on reaching the crest of the ridge that ran transversely across the entrance, he glanced up the gorge, and saw the different groups to all appearance as he had left them.
Riding in the front, he was about to descend the slope, when an exclamation from the rear caused him to rein up, and look back.
Several of the Indians, who had also mounted the ridge, were seen halted upon its summit, as if something was causing them surprise or alarm.
It could not be anything seen in the encampment. Their faces were not turned in that direction, but along the mountain line to the northward.
The chief, suddenly wheeling about, trotted back to the summit; and there saw what was causing surprise to his followers, and what now, also, astonished himself. Making out from the mountain, and scattering over the prairie, was a troop of horses without riders. In such a place they might have passed for wild steeds, with some mules among them, for they saw also these. But they were near enough nor to be mistaken formustangs.
Besides, it was seen that they all carried saddles on their backs, and bridles over their necks—the reins of most of them trailing down to the grass.
The red marauders knew at a glance what it meant. It could be nothing else than thecavalladaof some camp that had “stampeded.”
An encampment of whites, or men of their own colour? This was the question that, for a while, occupied their attention, as they stood regarding the movements of the animals.
It did not take them long to arrive at a conclusion. The strange horses, at first scampering in different directions, had wheeled back toward a common centre; and in a drove were now coming toward the spot occupied by the Indians. As they drew nearer, the style of the saddles and other riding-gear told the Cheyennes that their owners were not Indians.
On first seeing them, the Yellow Chief had commanded his followers to take position behind a clump of trees standing upon the slope of the ridge, and hindering observation from the northward. There, for a time, they continued to observe the movements of the riderless horses.
What seemed strange was, that there were no men following them. If escaping from a camp in broad daylight, as it still was, they should have been seen, and some attempt made to recapture them. But, as they strayed under the eyes of the Indians, no owners appeared to be after them.
For some time the Cheyenne chief and his followers sat gazing upon thecavallada, and endeavouring to explain its presence.
They could make nothing out of it, beyond the fact of its being a troop of stampeded animals.
And these could only have come from a camp of whites; for neither the horses nor their trappings were such as are in use among Indians. There were American horses among them, very different from the mustang of the prairies.
Had they got away in the night, when their owners were asleep? Not likely. Even thus they would have been trailed and overtaken. Besides, when the Indians first set eyes on them, they were galloping excitedly, as if freshly stampeded. They were now getting quieted after their scare—whatever it may have been—some of them, as they stepped along, stooping their heads to gather a mouthful of grass.
To the Indians it was a tempting sight. Horse-stealing is their regular profession, and success at it one of their boasted accomplishments. A young brave, returning to his tribe with the captured horse of an enemy, is received almost with as much triumph and congratulation as if he carried the scalp of that enemy on the point of his spear.
They remained in ambush only long enough to see that there were no men within sight of the straying horses; and to reflect that, even if the owners were near, they must be afoot, and therefore helpless to hinder their cattle from being captured. A dash after the drove would do it. They were all provided with their lazos, and there could be little difficulty in securing the strays, to all appearance docile, as if jaded after a long journey. With the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed through the minds of the marauders; and simultaneously they turned their eyes upon the chief, as if seeking permission to ride off in pursuit. Not only was it given, but he himself determined to lead the chase.
Among his other evil passions, cupidity was one; and, by Indian law, the prize belongs to him who takes it. The chance of adding two or three fine horses to his stock was not to be slighted; and turning to one of the men who kept guard over the captive girl, he ordered him to take her on to the encampment.
Then, setting the example to his followers, he rode out from behind the copse, and, at an easy pace, directed his course toward the saunteringcavallada.
Chapter Twenty One.A Pleasanter Captivity.If the sight of the straying horses had caused surprise to the Indians, not less astonished were they who, within the valley, had been awaiting their approach. The trappers, placed in a well-contrived ambush, had seen Yellow Chief as he ascended to the crest of the ridge, and noticed his strange movements. Divided into two parties, they were stationed near the entrance of the gorge, about one-half their number on each side of it. Two lateral ravines running some distance into the face of the rocky cliff, and thickly studded with scrub-cedars, afforded them a place of concealment. Their plan was to let the returned pursuers pass in, and then, rushing out, to close up the entrance, and thus cut off their retreat. Trusting to their guns, pistols, and knives, as well as the panic which the surprise would undoubtedly create, they intended making abattueof the savages—to strike a grand “coup,” as they themselves expressed it. There was no talk of giving quarter. The word was not even mentioned. In the minds of these men the thought of mercy to an Indian enemy has little place; less for a Cheyenne; and less still for the band of braves led by the Yellow Chief—a name lately distinguished for treacherous hostility toward trappers as well as cruelty of every kind.“Let’s kill every redskin of them!” was the resolution understood by all, and spoken by several, as they separated to take their places in ambuscade. When they saw the Indians mount upon the summit of the ridge, the chief already descending, they felt as if their design was soon to be accomplished. They were near enough to the savages to make out the expression upon their countenances. They saw no signs denoting doubt. In five minutes more the unconscious enemy would be through the gap, and then—And then was it that the exclamation was heard from those upon the hill, causing the chief suddenly to turn his horse and ride back.What could it mean? Not one of the trappers could guess. Even ’Lije Orton was puzzled by the movement.“Thar must be somethin’ queery on tother side,” he whispered to O’Neil, who was in ambush by his side. “That ere movement can’t a be from anything they’ve seed hyar. They waant lookin’ this way. Durn me, if I kin make out what stopped ’em!”Of all those awaiting the approach of the Indians, no one suffered so much from seeing them halt as the young Irishman. For the first time in five years he had a view of that face, almost every night appearing to him in his dreams. She was near enough for him to trace the lineaments of those features, indelibly impressed upon his memory. If he saw change in them, it was only that they appeared more beautiful than ever. The wan hue of sadness, and that pallor of complexion, natural to a daughter of the South, had been replaced by a red suffusion upon her cheeks, caused by the chase, the capture, and the terrible excitement of the situation; and she seemed to glow with beauty. And there was something that at the moment rendered her still more beautiful in the eyes of O’Neil. During the interval of hasty action since entering the Indian encampment, he had found time to place himself in communication with some of the white captives, her companions on the journey. From them he had learnt enough to know, that Clara Blackadder was yet unwedded; something, too, of her mood of habitual melancholy, as if there was a void in her heart, none of them understood!As he knelt behind the cedar-trees, expectant of her return, he had indulged in sweet conjectures as to its cause; and when he saw her upon the ridge, riding down as it were into his arms, a thrill of delightful anticipation passed over his spirit. He could scarce restrain himself from rushing forth to receive her; and it was with difficulty the old trapper could keep him silent in his concealment.Still more difficult as the Indians halted on the hill.“They may ride off again,” said he, in an agonised whisper, to his more patient comrade. “Supposing they suspect our presence? They may gallop off, and take her along with them? We have no horses to follow. We should never overtake them afoot.”“You kedn’t ef we charged on ’em now. They’re ayont the carry o’ our guns. Ef they git a glimps o’ one o’ us, they’ll be sartin to stampede. Don’t show the tip o’ yur nose, Ned; for yur life, don’t!”The counsel might not have been heeded. O’Neil was in an agony of impatient apprehension. It seemed so easy to rush up to the summit of the ridge, and rescue her he so dearly loved. He felt as if he could have outrun the swiftest horse, and alone vanquished the full band of savages that surrounded her!Yielding to the impetuosity of his long-constrained passion, he might have made the suicidal attempt, had he not been stayed by the next movement of the Indians, who, to the surprise of all, both prisoners and trappers, were seen to turn their backs upon the encampment, leaving the young girl in the charge of a single savage! Even then Orton found it difficult to restrain O’Neil from leaping out from his ambush and rushing toward his beloved. It seemed now so easy to rescue her!The old trapper was again compelled to use force, throwing his arms around and holding him in his place.“A minnit more, ye fool!” was the hurried though not very complimentary speech hissed into O’Neil’s ear. “Hev patience one minnit, and she’ll coflumix right into yur arms, like a barked squirrel from the branch o’ a tree. Hish!”The last exclamation was simultaneous with a movement on the part of the Indian who had been left in charge of the captive. In obedience to the hurried order of his chief, the savage had taken the bridle of her horse, and commenced leading the animal down the slope in the direction of the ravine, his eyes straying over the ground of the encampment.Before entering the gap, he looked ahead! The silence there seemed somewhat to astonish him. It was strange there was no movement. He could see several of his comrades lying upon the grass, and others standing over the captives, these still in their planes just as he remembered them, when starting forth on the pursuit.The Indians upon the ground seemed natural enough. They were those who had drunk too freely of the white man’s fire-water. But the guards standing erect—leaning upon their long lances—it was odd they should be so silent, so motionless! He knew his comrades to be trained to a certain stoicism; but, considering the exciting scenes that had occurred, this was beyond expectation.For all, the thing caused him no suspicion. How could he have a thought of what had transpired in his absence?He advanced without further pause, leading the captive’s horse, till he had passed through the gap of the gorge. Whether he then saw enough to tell him of the trap into which he had fallen can never be known. If he did, he had no time either to reflect upon or escape from it. A man, gliding silently out from the bushes, sprang like a panther upon the croup of his horse; and before he could turn to see who thus assailed him, a bowie-knife had gone deep into his dorsal ribs, causing him to drop dead to the ground without uttering a groan!It was the bowie-knife of old ’Lije Orton that had inflicted the fatal stab.At the same instant another man, rushing out from the same cover, clasped the captive girl in his arms, and tenderly lifted her from the saddle.She was surprised, but not terrified. There could be no more terror there. If there had, it would have passed in a moment, when in her deliverer she recognised one who, for five long years, had been alike the torture and solace of her thoughts.
If the sight of the straying horses had caused surprise to the Indians, not less astonished were they who, within the valley, had been awaiting their approach. The trappers, placed in a well-contrived ambush, had seen Yellow Chief as he ascended to the crest of the ridge, and noticed his strange movements. Divided into two parties, they were stationed near the entrance of the gorge, about one-half their number on each side of it. Two lateral ravines running some distance into the face of the rocky cliff, and thickly studded with scrub-cedars, afforded them a place of concealment. Their plan was to let the returned pursuers pass in, and then, rushing out, to close up the entrance, and thus cut off their retreat. Trusting to their guns, pistols, and knives, as well as the panic which the surprise would undoubtedly create, they intended making abattueof the savages—to strike a grand “coup,” as they themselves expressed it. There was no talk of giving quarter. The word was not even mentioned. In the minds of these men the thought of mercy to an Indian enemy has little place; less for a Cheyenne; and less still for the band of braves led by the Yellow Chief—a name lately distinguished for treacherous hostility toward trappers as well as cruelty of every kind.
“Let’s kill every redskin of them!” was the resolution understood by all, and spoken by several, as they separated to take their places in ambuscade. When they saw the Indians mount upon the summit of the ridge, the chief already descending, they felt as if their design was soon to be accomplished. They were near enough to the savages to make out the expression upon their countenances. They saw no signs denoting doubt. In five minutes more the unconscious enemy would be through the gap, and then—
And then was it that the exclamation was heard from those upon the hill, causing the chief suddenly to turn his horse and ride back.
What could it mean? Not one of the trappers could guess. Even ’Lije Orton was puzzled by the movement.
“Thar must be somethin’ queery on tother side,” he whispered to O’Neil, who was in ambush by his side. “That ere movement can’t a be from anything they’ve seed hyar. They waant lookin’ this way. Durn me, if I kin make out what stopped ’em!”
Of all those awaiting the approach of the Indians, no one suffered so much from seeing them halt as the young Irishman. For the first time in five years he had a view of that face, almost every night appearing to him in his dreams. She was near enough for him to trace the lineaments of those features, indelibly impressed upon his memory. If he saw change in them, it was only that they appeared more beautiful than ever. The wan hue of sadness, and that pallor of complexion, natural to a daughter of the South, had been replaced by a red suffusion upon her cheeks, caused by the chase, the capture, and the terrible excitement of the situation; and she seemed to glow with beauty. And there was something that at the moment rendered her still more beautiful in the eyes of O’Neil. During the interval of hasty action since entering the Indian encampment, he had found time to place himself in communication with some of the white captives, her companions on the journey. From them he had learnt enough to know, that Clara Blackadder was yet unwedded; something, too, of her mood of habitual melancholy, as if there was a void in her heart, none of them understood!
As he knelt behind the cedar-trees, expectant of her return, he had indulged in sweet conjectures as to its cause; and when he saw her upon the ridge, riding down as it were into his arms, a thrill of delightful anticipation passed over his spirit. He could scarce restrain himself from rushing forth to receive her; and it was with difficulty the old trapper could keep him silent in his concealment.
Still more difficult as the Indians halted on the hill.
“They may ride off again,” said he, in an agonised whisper, to his more patient comrade. “Supposing they suspect our presence? They may gallop off, and take her along with them? We have no horses to follow. We should never overtake them afoot.”
“You kedn’t ef we charged on ’em now. They’re ayont the carry o’ our guns. Ef they git a glimps o’ one o’ us, they’ll be sartin to stampede. Don’t show the tip o’ yur nose, Ned; for yur life, don’t!”
The counsel might not have been heeded. O’Neil was in an agony of impatient apprehension. It seemed so easy to rush up to the summit of the ridge, and rescue her he so dearly loved. He felt as if he could have outrun the swiftest horse, and alone vanquished the full band of savages that surrounded her!
Yielding to the impetuosity of his long-constrained passion, he might have made the suicidal attempt, had he not been stayed by the next movement of the Indians, who, to the surprise of all, both prisoners and trappers, were seen to turn their backs upon the encampment, leaving the young girl in the charge of a single savage! Even then Orton found it difficult to restrain O’Neil from leaping out from his ambush and rushing toward his beloved. It seemed now so easy to rescue her!
The old trapper was again compelled to use force, throwing his arms around and holding him in his place.
“A minnit more, ye fool!” was the hurried though not very complimentary speech hissed into O’Neil’s ear. “Hev patience one minnit, and she’ll coflumix right into yur arms, like a barked squirrel from the branch o’ a tree. Hish!”
The last exclamation was simultaneous with a movement on the part of the Indian who had been left in charge of the captive. In obedience to the hurried order of his chief, the savage had taken the bridle of her horse, and commenced leading the animal down the slope in the direction of the ravine, his eyes straying over the ground of the encampment.
Before entering the gap, he looked ahead! The silence there seemed somewhat to astonish him. It was strange there was no movement. He could see several of his comrades lying upon the grass, and others standing over the captives, these still in their planes just as he remembered them, when starting forth on the pursuit.
The Indians upon the ground seemed natural enough. They were those who had drunk too freely of the white man’s fire-water. But the guards standing erect—leaning upon their long lances—it was odd they should be so silent, so motionless! He knew his comrades to be trained to a certain stoicism; but, considering the exciting scenes that had occurred, this was beyond expectation.
For all, the thing caused him no suspicion. How could he have a thought of what had transpired in his absence?
He advanced without further pause, leading the captive’s horse, till he had passed through the gap of the gorge. Whether he then saw enough to tell him of the trap into which he had fallen can never be known. If he did, he had no time either to reflect upon or escape from it. A man, gliding silently out from the bushes, sprang like a panther upon the croup of his horse; and before he could turn to see who thus assailed him, a bowie-knife had gone deep into his dorsal ribs, causing him to drop dead to the ground without uttering a groan!
It was the bowie-knife of old ’Lije Orton that had inflicted the fatal stab.
At the same instant another man, rushing out from the same cover, clasped the captive girl in his arms, and tenderly lifted her from the saddle.
She was surprised, but not terrified. There could be no more terror there. If there had, it would have passed in a moment, when in her deliverer she recognised one who, for five long years, had been alike the torture and solace of her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty Two.The Scene Re-arranged.Edward O’Neil held Clara Blackadder in his arms. He now knew she loved and had been true to him, though not from any words that had passed between them.There was scarce time for them to do more than pronounce one another’s names; but the glance exchanged was eloquent to the hearts of both. Each saw in the other’s eyes that the old fondness was still there, strengthened, if aught changed, by the trials through which they had passed.Almost on the instant of their coming together they were again parted by the trappers; who, with ’Lije Orton and Black Harris directing them, had hastily commenced rearranging the ambuscade. Every moment they might expect the return of the Indians. A scout, who had hurried up to the crest of the ridge, telegraphed back why the savages had ridden off.With the quick perception common to men of their calling, they at once understood all. They remembered that in their haste they had but slightly secured their horses. Something, some sort of wild beast, perhaps a grizzly bear, had got among them, causing the stampede. It was an occurrence not new to them.It only increased their thirst for vengeance against the detested Cheyennes, and made them more than ever determined on a wholesale destruction of the predatory band.“Let’s rub them out, every redskin of them!” was the counsel passed around.“We must get back our horses anyhow!”“We’ll do thet,” said Orton, “an’ thar horses, too, to redemnify us for the trouble. But, boyees, ’t won’t do to go foolich about it. Though thar’s no fear o’ these hyur skunks tellin’ tales, we must take percaushuns for all that. This nigger wants proppin’ up like the rest o’ ’em. When that air done, we’ll be riddy to gie ’em thar recepshun.”The others knew what ’Lije meant, and hastened to reset the stage for the next scene of the sanguinary drama.While the scout on the crest of the ridge kept them warned as to the movements of the Indians, the others were busy placing the tableau that was to greet them on their return. The young lady was directed to assume a half-recumbent attitude on the grass—her horse still saddled standing near. Close by, propped up, was the dead body of the savage to whose keeping she had been entrusted; not seeming dead, but life-like by the side of his own horse, as if still keeping guard over the captive. All was arranged in less than ten minutes of time. These rude mountain men are ready at suchruses. No wonder their wits should be quick and keen; their lives often depend upon the successful execution of such schemes.They found time to make many changes in the arrangement previously made. In their haste the stage had not been set to their satisfaction. The other dead sentinels were placed in attitudes more life-like and natural, and all traces of the brief struggle were carefully blotted out or removed. The captives, both white and black, were cautioned to keep their places, and instructed how to act, in case of any unforeseen accident causing a change in the carrying out of the programme.When everything was fixed to their satisfaction, the trappers returned to their ambush; as before, distributing themselves into two parties—one for each side of the gorge. A vidette was still kept upon the top of the ridge, though not the man first deputed for the performance of this duty. There were now two of them—Black Harris and ’Lije Orton.It was an interval of strange reflection with the young Irishman, O’Neil. Before his eyes—almost within reach of his arms—upon the grassy sward, he saw lying that fair form which for long absent years had remained vividly outlined in his memory. How he longed to go nearer and embrace her! And all the more, that he could perceive her glance turned toward the spot where he lay concealed, as if endeavouring to penetrate the leafy screen that separated them. How he longed for the final event that would terminate this red tragedy, and bring them together again, in life never more to be parted! It was a relief, as well as joy to him, when his old comrade, Orton, close followed by Black Harris, was seen hastily descending the slope, their gestures showing that the horse-hunt was over, and the savages were riding back toward the encampment.“Now, boyees!” said ’Lije, gliding to both sides of the gorge, and addressing the trappers in a cautious undertone, “ef ye’ll jest keep yerselves purfectly cool for about ten minutes longer, an’ wait till ye git the word from Black Harry or myself, ye’ll have a chance o’ wipin’ out any scores ye may hev run up ’twixt yur-selves an’ Yellow Chief. Don’t neer a one o’ ye touch trigger till the last of the cussed varmints hev got clar past the mouth o’ this hyur gully. An’ then wait till ye hear the signal from me. It’ll be the crack o’ my rifle. Arter thet, the Injuns aint like to hev any chief; an’ ye kin go in, an’ gie ’em eturnal darnation.”In ten seconds after he had ceased speaking not a trapper was to be seen near the Indian encampment; only the captives with their sentinels standing over them, surrounded by a stillness as of death. It was like the ominous calm that comes between two gusts of a storm, all the more awful from the contrasting silence.
Edward O’Neil held Clara Blackadder in his arms. He now knew she loved and had been true to him, though not from any words that had passed between them.
There was scarce time for them to do more than pronounce one another’s names; but the glance exchanged was eloquent to the hearts of both. Each saw in the other’s eyes that the old fondness was still there, strengthened, if aught changed, by the trials through which they had passed.
Almost on the instant of their coming together they were again parted by the trappers; who, with ’Lije Orton and Black Harris directing them, had hastily commenced rearranging the ambuscade. Every moment they might expect the return of the Indians. A scout, who had hurried up to the crest of the ridge, telegraphed back why the savages had ridden off.
With the quick perception common to men of their calling, they at once understood all. They remembered that in their haste they had but slightly secured their horses. Something, some sort of wild beast, perhaps a grizzly bear, had got among them, causing the stampede. It was an occurrence not new to them.
It only increased their thirst for vengeance against the detested Cheyennes, and made them more than ever determined on a wholesale destruction of the predatory band.
“Let’s rub them out, every redskin of them!” was the counsel passed around.
“We must get back our horses anyhow!”
“We’ll do thet,” said Orton, “an’ thar horses, too, to redemnify us for the trouble. But, boyees, ’t won’t do to go foolich about it. Though thar’s no fear o’ these hyur skunks tellin’ tales, we must take percaushuns for all that. This nigger wants proppin’ up like the rest o’ ’em. When that air done, we’ll be riddy to gie ’em thar recepshun.”
The others knew what ’Lije meant, and hastened to reset the stage for the next scene of the sanguinary drama.
While the scout on the crest of the ridge kept them warned as to the movements of the Indians, the others were busy placing the tableau that was to greet them on their return. The young lady was directed to assume a half-recumbent attitude on the grass—her horse still saddled standing near. Close by, propped up, was the dead body of the savage to whose keeping she had been entrusted; not seeming dead, but life-like by the side of his own horse, as if still keeping guard over the captive. All was arranged in less than ten minutes of time. These rude mountain men are ready at suchruses. No wonder their wits should be quick and keen; their lives often depend upon the successful execution of such schemes.
They found time to make many changes in the arrangement previously made. In their haste the stage had not been set to their satisfaction. The other dead sentinels were placed in attitudes more life-like and natural, and all traces of the brief struggle were carefully blotted out or removed. The captives, both white and black, were cautioned to keep their places, and instructed how to act, in case of any unforeseen accident causing a change in the carrying out of the programme.
When everything was fixed to their satisfaction, the trappers returned to their ambush; as before, distributing themselves into two parties—one for each side of the gorge. A vidette was still kept upon the top of the ridge, though not the man first deputed for the performance of this duty. There were now two of them—Black Harris and ’Lije Orton.
It was an interval of strange reflection with the young Irishman, O’Neil. Before his eyes—almost within reach of his arms—upon the grassy sward, he saw lying that fair form which for long absent years had remained vividly outlined in his memory. How he longed to go nearer and embrace her! And all the more, that he could perceive her glance turned toward the spot where he lay concealed, as if endeavouring to penetrate the leafy screen that separated them. How he longed for the final event that would terminate this red tragedy, and bring them together again, in life never more to be parted! It was a relief, as well as joy to him, when his old comrade, Orton, close followed by Black Harris, was seen hastily descending the slope, their gestures showing that the horse-hunt was over, and the savages were riding back toward the encampment.
“Now, boyees!” said ’Lije, gliding to both sides of the gorge, and addressing the trappers in a cautious undertone, “ef ye’ll jest keep yerselves purfectly cool for about ten minutes longer, an’ wait till ye git the word from Black Harry or myself, ye’ll have a chance o’ wipin’ out any scores ye may hev run up ’twixt yur-selves an’ Yellow Chief. Don’t neer a one o’ ye touch trigger till the last of the cussed varmints hev got clar past the mouth o’ this hyur gully. An’ then wait till ye hear the signal from me. It’ll be the crack o’ my rifle. Arter thet, the Injuns aint like to hev any chief; an’ ye kin go in, an’ gie ’em eturnal darnation.”
In ten seconds after he had ceased speaking not a trapper was to be seen near the Indian encampment; only the captives with their sentinels standing over them, surrounded by a stillness as of death. It was like the ominous calm that comes between two gusts of a storm, all the more awful from the contrasting silence.
Chapter Twenty Three.The Stampeders Captured.In starting in chase of the strayingcavallada, the Cheyennes did not go on at full speed. The spectacle of over twenty horses saddled and bridled, wandering about without riders on their backs, or the sign of an owner following after them, was one so novel, that, while causing astonishment to the savages, it also aroused their instincts of caution. It looked like what the Indians had first taken it for—a stampede. And still it might be the ruse of an enemy, with the design of drawing them into an ambuscade. Partly for this reason, and partly that the ownerless animals might not be scared into a second stampede, and so become difficult of capture, the Cheyennes rode toward them slowly and deliberately.As they drew near, however, and still no white men appeared in sight, they quickened their pace, and at length broke into a gallop—charging at full speed upon the sauntering drove. This had become necessary, as the white men’s horses had “smelt Indian,” and with crests erect, and snorting nostrils, showed signs of making off.For a period of ten minutes there was a confused movement upon the plain—a sort of irregular tournament, in which horses ridden by dusky riders, and others without any, were mingled together and galloping towards every point of the compass; long slender ropes, like snakes, suddenly uncoiled, were seen circling through the air; wild cries were heard, sent forth from a score of savage throats—the clamour increased by the shrill neighing of horses and the shriller hinneying of the mules—while the firm prairie turf echoed the tread of over a hundred hoofs.And soon this tableau underwent a change. The dark moving mass became scattered over a wider surface, and here and there could be seen, at intervals apart, the oft-described spectacle of a horseman using the lazo: two horses at opposite ends of a long rope stretched taut between them, tails toward each other, one of them standing with feet firmly planted, the lazo fast to a stapled ring in the tree of his saddle; the other prostrate upon the ground, with the rope wound around his neck, no longer struggling to free himself, but convulsively to get breath.And soon again the tableau became changed. The captured steeds were whipped back upon their feet, and their captors once more got into a clump together, each leading a spare horse, that followed without further resistance.Some had none, while others, more fortunate or skilful, had succeeded in making a double take during the quick scramble.After the more serious work of the morning, it was a light and pleasant interlude for the young Cheyennee, and, as they returned toward their camp, they were full of joyous glee.Still were their thoughts damped with some suspicion of danger. The novelty of such an easy razzia had in it also something of mystery; and as they rode slowly back over the prairie swells, they glanced anxious glances toward the north—the point from which the stampeded horses had come.But no one was in sight—there was no sign of a human being!Were the owners of the lost horses asleep? Or had they been struck dead, before the scattering commenced?The mutual congratulations of the savages on the handsomecoupthey had made were restrained by the mystery that surrounded it; and, with mingled feelings of gladness and apprehension, they once more approached the spot where, as they supposed, their comrades and captives awaited them.They went with as much speed as the led horses would allow them. Their chief, cunning as he was courageous, suspected that danger might be nigh. Where there was smoke there should be fire; and thinking of this old adage, he knew that where there were over twenty caparisoned horses there must be at least this number of men not far off—men who could only be enemies. Now that the animals were in his possession, he was sure of their owners being white. The saddles, bridles, and other trappings were such as are never, or only occasionally, used by the red-skinned cavaliers of the prairie. Though now surely afoot, the men to whom the horses belonged would be as sure to follow them; and the Yellow Chief knew that a score of white men armed with their death-dealing rifles would be an overmatch for his band, though these outnumbered them two to one. The captured animals told him something besides: their caparison proved them to belong to trappers; which, in his reckoning, more than doubled their number.To gather up the spoils taken from the emigrant train, along with the captives, and take speedy departure from the place, was now his design.He was thinking of the triumph that awaited him on his return to the head town of the great Cheyenne tribe; the welcome he would receive bringing back such a booty—horses, spoils, prisoners, the last to be distributed as slaves—of his increased glory in the nation, his promotion among the leaders, and the hope some day to become head chief of the Cheyennes—all these thoughts passing through his mind made him highly exultant.And there was the other thought—revenge over his enemies in early life—those by whose tyranny and persecution he had been driven forth to find a home, and along with it honour, among the red men of the wilderness.His fiendish spirit felt sweet joy, thus revelling in revenge; and as he rode back toward the camp, where he knew his victims awaited him, he might have been heard muttering to himself:“They shall serve me, as I have served them. And she who is called my sister—she shall be my slave!”
In starting in chase of the strayingcavallada, the Cheyennes did not go on at full speed. The spectacle of over twenty horses saddled and bridled, wandering about without riders on their backs, or the sign of an owner following after them, was one so novel, that, while causing astonishment to the savages, it also aroused their instincts of caution. It looked like what the Indians had first taken it for—a stampede. And still it might be the ruse of an enemy, with the design of drawing them into an ambuscade. Partly for this reason, and partly that the ownerless animals might not be scared into a second stampede, and so become difficult of capture, the Cheyennes rode toward them slowly and deliberately.
As they drew near, however, and still no white men appeared in sight, they quickened their pace, and at length broke into a gallop—charging at full speed upon the sauntering drove. This had become necessary, as the white men’s horses had “smelt Indian,” and with crests erect, and snorting nostrils, showed signs of making off.
For a period of ten minutes there was a confused movement upon the plain—a sort of irregular tournament, in which horses ridden by dusky riders, and others without any, were mingled together and galloping towards every point of the compass; long slender ropes, like snakes, suddenly uncoiled, were seen circling through the air; wild cries were heard, sent forth from a score of savage throats—the clamour increased by the shrill neighing of horses and the shriller hinneying of the mules—while the firm prairie turf echoed the tread of over a hundred hoofs.
And soon this tableau underwent a change. The dark moving mass became scattered over a wider surface, and here and there could be seen, at intervals apart, the oft-described spectacle of a horseman using the lazo: two horses at opposite ends of a long rope stretched taut between them, tails toward each other, one of them standing with feet firmly planted, the lazo fast to a stapled ring in the tree of his saddle; the other prostrate upon the ground, with the rope wound around his neck, no longer struggling to free himself, but convulsively to get breath.
And soon again the tableau became changed. The captured steeds were whipped back upon their feet, and their captors once more got into a clump together, each leading a spare horse, that followed without further resistance.
Some had none, while others, more fortunate or skilful, had succeeded in making a double take during the quick scramble.
After the more serious work of the morning, it was a light and pleasant interlude for the young Cheyennee, and, as they returned toward their camp, they were full of joyous glee.
Still were their thoughts damped with some suspicion of danger. The novelty of such an easy razzia had in it also something of mystery; and as they rode slowly back over the prairie swells, they glanced anxious glances toward the north—the point from which the stampeded horses had come.
But no one was in sight—there was no sign of a human being!
Were the owners of the lost horses asleep? Or had they been struck dead, before the scattering commenced?
The mutual congratulations of the savages on the handsomecoupthey had made were restrained by the mystery that surrounded it; and, with mingled feelings of gladness and apprehension, they once more approached the spot where, as they supposed, their comrades and captives awaited them.
They went with as much speed as the led horses would allow them. Their chief, cunning as he was courageous, suspected that danger might be nigh. Where there was smoke there should be fire; and thinking of this old adage, he knew that where there were over twenty caparisoned horses there must be at least this number of men not far off—men who could only be enemies. Now that the animals were in his possession, he was sure of their owners being white. The saddles, bridles, and other trappings were such as are never, or only occasionally, used by the red-skinned cavaliers of the prairie. Though now surely afoot, the men to whom the horses belonged would be as sure to follow them; and the Yellow Chief knew that a score of white men armed with their death-dealing rifles would be an overmatch for his band, though these outnumbered them two to one. The captured animals told him something besides: their caparison proved them to belong to trappers; which, in his reckoning, more than doubled their number.
To gather up the spoils taken from the emigrant train, along with the captives, and take speedy departure from the place, was now his design.
He was thinking of the triumph that awaited him on his return to the head town of the great Cheyenne tribe; the welcome he would receive bringing back such a booty—horses, spoils, prisoners, the last to be distributed as slaves—of his increased glory in the nation, his promotion among the leaders, and the hope some day to become head chief of the Cheyennes—all these thoughts passing through his mind made him highly exultant.
And there was the other thought—revenge over his enemies in early life—those by whose tyranny and persecution he had been driven forth to find a home, and along with it honour, among the red men of the wilderness.
His fiendish spirit felt sweet joy, thus revelling in revenge; and as he rode back toward the camp, where he knew his victims awaited him, he might have been heard muttering to himself:
“They shall serve me, as I have served them. And she who is called my sister—she shall be my slave!”
Chapter Twenty Four.Finale.The sun was already close down to the summit of thesierra, when the Yellow Chief and his followers once more surmounted the ridge that brought them in sight of the encampment.Although the daylight was still lingering around them, the little glen and the gap leading into it were obscured under the purple shadows of approaching night.There was light enough left for the Indian horsemen to distinguish the salient features of the scene. They could see the various groupings of their prisoners, with their comrades standing sentry over them; the white men on one side; the women near; and on the opposite edge of the valley, the sable crowd, some seated, some standing, in all respects apparently as they had parted from them when starting on the pursuit of Clara Blackadder.Apart from all the rest they saw her, with the Choctaw keeping watch close by, his hand clutching the withers of his horse.The picture was complete. Nothing seemed wanting. No one was there who should not have been, nor any one missing. Who could have had suspicion, that close to those silent groupings there were others equally silent, but unseen and unsuspected? Not the young Cheyenne braves returning with their captured horses; not the daring chief who rode at their head.Without the slightest warning of the surprise that awaited them, they pushed boldly through the gap, and on, over the level meadow, toward the spot occupied by their prisoners.It was not till they had drawn up amidst the captive groups that things seemed a little strange to them. Why were their comrades so still, so silent? They did not think of those lying stretched along the grass—in all about a dozen. They had left them there, and knew that they were intoxicated. But the guards standing erect—why were these so undemonstrative? It was a thing unusual. Returning with such spoil, they might expect to have been hailed by a paean of congratulations. There was not even a salute!It was a puzzle—a mystery. Had there been a better light, it might sooner have been solved. The blood sprinkled here and there over the grass, the gashes that would have been seen on the bodies of the sentinels, their stiff set attitudes and ghastly faces—all would have been apparent. But over all was the veil of a fast-darkening twilight, and through its obscurity only the outlines of their figures could be traced, in positions and attitudes seeming natural enough. It was the absence of all motion, coupled with the profound silence, that seemed strange, ominous, appalling!“Waboga!” cried the chief, addressing himself to the Choctaw who stood guard over the girl, “what means this? Why do you stand there like a tree-stump? Why do you not speak?”No answer from Waboga!“Dog!” cried the mulatto, “if you don’t make answer, I’ll have you nailed to that cross, you have yourself erected. Once more I ask you, what is the meaning of this nonsense?”The threat had no effect upon Waboga. It elicited no answer—not even the courtesy of a sign!“Slave!” shouted the chief, leaping down from his horse, and rushing toward the silent sentry, “I shall not give you the grace of a trial. This instant shall you die!”As he spoke, a blade glistened in his hand, which, as his gestures showed, was about to be buried in the body of Waboga.The sentry stood staunch, apparently regardless of the death that threatened him!The chief stayed his hand, surprised at the unparalleled coolness of the Choctaw.Only for a moment; for as he stood regarding him, now close up to the body, he saw what explained all—a gash great as he could have himself inflicted!Waboga was already dead!The horse upon which the Choctaw was leaning, scared by the threatening gesture, shied to one side, and the lifeless form fell heavily to the earth!The knife dropped from the hands of the Cheyenne chief, and, with a wild, distracted air, he turned toward his followers to seek an explanation. But before a word could be spoke all was explained.A cordon of dark forms was seen closing up the entrance of the valley; the word “Fire!” was heard, followed by a serried sheet of flame, and the sharp “crack, crack, crack,” proclaiming the discharge of a score of rifles.It was the last sight seen by the Yellow Chief—the last sound heard by him before passing into eternity!And the same with his freebooting band. Not one of them went alive out of that valley, into which the trappers had decoyed them.The emigrants continued on to California, now with diminished numbers; for, along with the leader, several others had been killed in the attack upon the caravan.But, besides the dead, there was one living who went not with them.Now that her father was no more, there was no one to hinder Clara Blackadder from staying behind, along with the man of her choice; no reason why she should not return with him to the seats of civilisation.And she did so; not to share with him an humble home, but a residence far more splendid than the old plantation-house in the “Choctaw purchase.” As the Irish trapper had declared it, Edward O’Neil was one of the “Onales of Tipperary, a gintleman on both sides av the house;” and in due time the property belonging to both sides of the house became his.It might be chivalry that he did not take his young Southern wife there, where she might feel lonely in a land of strangers. But it gave equal evidence of good sense, that he sold off his Tipperary estates, and invested the money in the purchase of town-lots upon an islet he had learned to love even more than the “gem of the seas.” It was the isle of Manhattan.There he still lives, happy in the companionship of his beautiful and faithful wife; cheered by sweet children, and, at intervals, by the presence of his old comrade, ’Lije Orton, who, now that railroads have penetrated the far prairies, comes occasionally to pay him a visit, and keep him posted up in the lore of the “mountain men.”The End.
The sun was already close down to the summit of thesierra, when the Yellow Chief and his followers once more surmounted the ridge that brought them in sight of the encampment.
Although the daylight was still lingering around them, the little glen and the gap leading into it were obscured under the purple shadows of approaching night.
There was light enough left for the Indian horsemen to distinguish the salient features of the scene. They could see the various groupings of their prisoners, with their comrades standing sentry over them; the white men on one side; the women near; and on the opposite edge of the valley, the sable crowd, some seated, some standing, in all respects apparently as they had parted from them when starting on the pursuit of Clara Blackadder.
Apart from all the rest they saw her, with the Choctaw keeping watch close by, his hand clutching the withers of his horse.
The picture was complete. Nothing seemed wanting. No one was there who should not have been, nor any one missing. Who could have had suspicion, that close to those silent groupings there were others equally silent, but unseen and unsuspected? Not the young Cheyenne braves returning with their captured horses; not the daring chief who rode at their head.
Without the slightest warning of the surprise that awaited them, they pushed boldly through the gap, and on, over the level meadow, toward the spot occupied by their prisoners.
It was not till they had drawn up amidst the captive groups that things seemed a little strange to them. Why were their comrades so still, so silent? They did not think of those lying stretched along the grass—in all about a dozen. They had left them there, and knew that they were intoxicated. But the guards standing erect—why were these so undemonstrative? It was a thing unusual. Returning with such spoil, they might expect to have been hailed by a paean of congratulations. There was not even a salute!
It was a puzzle—a mystery. Had there been a better light, it might sooner have been solved. The blood sprinkled here and there over the grass, the gashes that would have been seen on the bodies of the sentinels, their stiff set attitudes and ghastly faces—all would have been apparent. But over all was the veil of a fast-darkening twilight, and through its obscurity only the outlines of their figures could be traced, in positions and attitudes seeming natural enough. It was the absence of all motion, coupled with the profound silence, that seemed strange, ominous, appalling!
“Waboga!” cried the chief, addressing himself to the Choctaw who stood guard over the girl, “what means this? Why do you stand there like a tree-stump? Why do you not speak?”
No answer from Waboga!
“Dog!” cried the mulatto, “if you don’t make answer, I’ll have you nailed to that cross, you have yourself erected. Once more I ask you, what is the meaning of this nonsense?”
The threat had no effect upon Waboga. It elicited no answer—not even the courtesy of a sign!
“Slave!” shouted the chief, leaping down from his horse, and rushing toward the silent sentry, “I shall not give you the grace of a trial. This instant shall you die!”
As he spoke, a blade glistened in his hand, which, as his gestures showed, was about to be buried in the body of Waboga.
The sentry stood staunch, apparently regardless of the death that threatened him!
The chief stayed his hand, surprised at the unparalleled coolness of the Choctaw.
Only for a moment; for as he stood regarding him, now close up to the body, he saw what explained all—a gash great as he could have himself inflicted!
Waboga was already dead!
The horse upon which the Choctaw was leaning, scared by the threatening gesture, shied to one side, and the lifeless form fell heavily to the earth!
The knife dropped from the hands of the Cheyenne chief, and, with a wild, distracted air, he turned toward his followers to seek an explanation. But before a word could be spoke all was explained.
A cordon of dark forms was seen closing up the entrance of the valley; the word “Fire!” was heard, followed by a serried sheet of flame, and the sharp “crack, crack, crack,” proclaiming the discharge of a score of rifles.
It was the last sight seen by the Yellow Chief—the last sound heard by him before passing into eternity!
And the same with his freebooting band. Not one of them went alive out of that valley, into which the trappers had decoyed them.
The emigrants continued on to California, now with diminished numbers; for, along with the leader, several others had been killed in the attack upon the caravan.
But, besides the dead, there was one living who went not with them.
Now that her father was no more, there was no one to hinder Clara Blackadder from staying behind, along with the man of her choice; no reason why she should not return with him to the seats of civilisation.
And she did so; not to share with him an humble home, but a residence far more splendid than the old plantation-house in the “Choctaw purchase.” As the Irish trapper had declared it, Edward O’Neil was one of the “Onales of Tipperary, a gintleman on both sides av the house;” and in due time the property belonging to both sides of the house became his.
It might be chivalry that he did not take his young Southern wife there, where she might feel lonely in a land of strangers. But it gave equal evidence of good sense, that he sold off his Tipperary estates, and invested the money in the purchase of town-lots upon an islet he had learned to love even more than the “gem of the seas.” It was the isle of Manhattan.
There he still lives, happy in the companionship of his beautiful and faithful wife; cheered by sweet children, and, at intervals, by the presence of his old comrade, ’Lije Orton, who, now that railroads have penetrated the far prairies, comes occasionally to pay him a visit, and keep him posted up in the lore of the “mountain men.”
The End.