The heart-wrecked girl had fainted. The swift-coming death of her lover, and the horror of her own fate, was far too much. But with fiendish malice, the black-hearted white man carried her along until he stood by the side of the prisoner, and kissing the pure, pale lips—contaminating them with his touch, hurled into the shrinking ears:
"Your wife, that was to be, will now be mine! May the thought of it make your dying moments supremely happy. Ha! ha! how very happy! Think of her as being mine alone while lying here in the darkness and slowly starving—dying of thirst, with cool water trickling down within reach of your hand, and yet unable to get a single drop. Oh! how I envy you the pleasure!"
"Devil!" burst from the lips of the physician, and then, as if sorry that he had been betrayed into saying even that much, he resolutely closed them, and nothing could induce him to open them again.
It was in vain the brute taunted him both by words and actions. The blood surged from his heart as if it would burst through every vein, and it would have been mercy had it done so, and at once put an end to his unequaled suffering. But for an hour he was forced to endure. Then the Indians became impatient, and, dropping the girl heavily, the renegade assisted them in placing the fettered form of the prisoner and piling stones around and upon him, so as to prevent movement.
Then the entrance was walled up with massive rocks, and the prisoner left to darkness and the slow, accumulated, never-surpassed horrors of hunger and thirst!
CHAPTER VIII.
MUCK-A-KEE.
Much as all had appeared to give way to the white man, in the possession of his destined bride, yet there was at least one of the red-men who looked upon him with angry eyes and her with loving ones, and who was determined that she should fill his wigwam and minister to his comfort.
Muck-a-kee, or the Bull-frog—a brave of the most undoubted courage and cunning, but brutally savage disposition, had been inflamed with her rare beauty from the moment his eyes had rested upon her, and he had marked her for his own. But he was too wise to assert his preference as long as the white man was held in so much favor.
With envious eyes he had marked the scene in the cavern, and with envious ears had heard that, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she would be given to his rival. This he swore by the Manitou should never be done.
To accomplish his ends, he enlisted the old squaws who had guard over her by means of presents, and the very night she was to have been made a wife, the girl was missing, and not a soul could be found who could, or would, give the slightest information concerning it.
The guardian squaws declared that it must have been the work of spirits—that even while their eyes were fastened upon her they heard a terrible voice calling her by name, and that she melted away into air—passed through their fingers like smoke when they attempted to hold her, and that then they were struck down and blinded as if by lightning.
The rabble believed the story—the chiefs cared nothing about her so long as she was not destined to torture—the Medicine was trying to recover his lost ground, and in fact no one but Parsons appeared to take the slightest interest in her fate. He was angry without measure, and did every thing in his power to find some clue to her whereabouts, for he knew she could only have been taken away by mortal hands. But he searched in vain. She was as securely hidden from him as if already in her grave and her fair form ashes.
The abductor had been crafty. There was no impress of her little foot upon the ground—nothing by which she could be traced. And as it had been in fact, even so had she been led to believe the purpose. Taking the place of and disguised as one of the squaws, the Indian had filled her half-distracted brain with lies—made her believe that he was the friend of the white man—intended to release her lover, and that he wished her to come and meet him. At another time she might have doubted. But now any thing that promised to free her from Parsons was eagerly snatched at, and the wily warrior carried his end with far less difficulty than he had imagined, and while the village was locked in slumber Olive stole out like a shadow, met him beyond the limits of the wigwams, submitted to be lifted in his brawny arms and carried along the bed of a creek, whose water obliterated every trace, then mounted, he riding behind, and borne swiftly to a considerable distance—where she knew not—scarcely cared, so long as it was beyond the power of the black-souled renegade.
Before daylight they had reached the top of a mountain and found a newly erected wigwam, with another standing near that showed the marks of many a storm. The former was to be her home for a time, and she saw that it had been fitted up with some effort at comfort, for it was covered with double skins and carpeted with them.
"This," said the warrior, craftily playing the part of friend and taking every possible means to gain her good-will, "is your resting place. Here you will be in the most perfect safety."
"But alone! Alone in this horrible wilderness," she gasped, trembling in every limb at the bare thought of what dangers would surround her.
"No. In the other wigwam is an old squaw who will protect and provide for you. She is very old and crippled, and sometimes not in her right mind."
"A mad-woman my sole companion!"
"She is perfectly harmless."
"And him I love?" she questioned, with her entire soul going out to the physician in his living tomb.
"Is safe, and shall soon be relieved."
"How well you talk my language."
"Muck-a-kee has been often among them, and is their friend. He will save the pale-face."
"And give him back unharmed to me? Oh! joy, joy!"
The face of the Indian darkened for a moment, and his hand sought his knife, but he had too much self-command to permit her to fathom his designs, and after turning away as if to look out, he continued:
"The heart of Muck-a-kee will be glad when the White Lily is again in the arms of the brave she loves. Her skin is as the dawn of a summer morning, her hair soft as the silk of the maize, and her eyes like the stars shining in the still water."
"And," resumed the girl, without taking the least notice of his compliments, "there will be no danger in our being followed and discovered?"
"By the one of her own race, whose heart is like that of the black snake?"
"Yes."
"When he can follow the trail of the swift-winged swallow, then he can find ours."
"That is good news. When shall he who is confined in the rocks be released?"
"As soon as the red warrior can do so without being detected. But the White Lily need not mourn. No danger can come to him, and it will be many hours before he will even suffer hunger. Let her rest in peace, and no tears stain her bright eyes."
"You are very good. How shall I ever repay you?" and she pressed his hand warmly, and looked up thankfully into his eyes.
The action still more fired his blood, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could resist the temptation to clasp her in his arms. But the time was not yet ripe for such an action, and forced to resist he turned away and called in a loud voice:
"Metiz."
After waiting for a few moments he repeated the name even yet more boisterously, and at the same time explained to the anxious girl that "Metiz" in the language of the pale-face was "Thin Stick," but that when she had occasion to address the squaw who was to guard her, she had better use the Sioux word.
Still the old woman came not, and after repeated efforts to summon her he went out grumbling—returning dragging her along, and it required a great effort for Olive to keep from screaming, so hideous was she.
How old she was no one could have determined within a score of years. Her yet plentiful hair was white as snow, as were brows and lashes, and the long growth upon the upper lip, but her eyes were black and sparkling as anthracite—looked more like the serpent's when in its deadly coil than any thing human.
She had once been tall, but her form was now nearly doubled by years and pain, though when aroused she could rise to her full hight, and her broad shoulders and large arms told of power. Her face was a mass of wrinkles. Her hands were long and the untrimmed nails gave them the appearance of the talons of some great bird. Her figure appeared to be entirely wanting flesh—to be simply a compound of skin, muscles and bones, and as she crept into the wigwam, leaning upon a huge knotted staff, her fierce manner and coarse voice and restless behavior gave her the appearance of a wild beast.
"Metiz," said the chief, "this is the girl you must guard and feed until I come back."
"Ugh!" was the only reply, but the fiery eyes that were turned upon Olive made her shudder.
"You must take good care of her, do you hear, and you shall have plenty of fire-water and tobacco."
"Ugh!"
She turned away and retreated again to her own wigwam, muttering as she went.
"For the love of heaven do not leave me alone with her," pleaded the girl.
"I will come back—"
"And bring him I love?"
"Yes, as soon as I can. But have no fear; she will do you no harm. She is old and ugly but not dangerous in the least. I must go to see that no one has found our trail."
"And if the black-hearted white man should do so?"
"This!" said the Indian, touching his knife in a manner that could not be misunderstood.
"And the one in the cave? Oh! release him quickly and I will never cease to love you."
"Your lover shall come!"
His reply was peculiarly accented, and could she have read his face, her heart would have sunk within her as deeply as it had ever done before. But it was expressionless to her eyes, and after informing her that he would give the red squaw still stronger directions to keep watch over and be kind to her, he disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Soon after she saw him mount and ride down the mountain side, and feeling worn out and in a measure at least safe, she closed the curtains of the wigwam, and nestling among the soft robes, fell asleep.
But what awoke her she could never have told. It was the mysterious influence that often gives warning of coming danger. But awake she did, and that suddenly, and a scream burst from her lips as she saw the old squaw kneeling by her side, with her face bent closely down to her own.
"Oh! heaven, what do you want?" Olive asked, shivering with undefined alarm.
"The sun is seeking to hide itself behind the western mountains, and the young squaw of the pale-faces must be hungry. Metiz has brought her food and drink."
She saw that the eyes of the hideous Indian woman were upon her, and, fearing to make her angry, she arose, and by dint of a mighty exertion of will managed to eat.
"When the squaw has lived until every thing upon earth has been dead many, many winters she will not be so dainty," resumed her guardian, with a sneering voice, and instantly dispatched the rest of the provisions very much after the manner of a starving wolf.
"But I was not very hungry," replied Olive. "It was good, very good, and I thank you. Now I will go and take a walk."
"Where would the pale-face go?" was questioned in any thing but a pleasant voice.
"Oh! just to walk around a little. I am tired of being shut up in a wigwam."
"The grave is more narrow and dark."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Olive, beginning to fear again.
"If she walks far she may find out."
"Who would do me harm?"
"The woods are filled with great bears, with snarling wolves, with panthers, and almost every rock is a den of rattlesnakes."
"Good heaven! Yet you live among them?"
"I fear them not—fear nothing—am strong and know how to take care of myself. The pale-face is weak as a little pappoose."
"Will you not go with me?"
"What if I should? Your feet are swift as those of a doe, mine heavy, as if my moccasins were lead. The chief gave her into the keeping of Metiz, and she must stay in the wigwam."
"Must?"
"Ugh."
"Do you mean that I am a prisoner?"
"Until the chief comes back."
"He brought me here to save me for—"
"Himself."
"Oh! heaven, tell me what you mean."
"He will make her his wife—will take her to his wigwam."
"Can it be possible there is such treachery? He told me he was my friend—the friend of the white man."
"Then he lied!" she hissed like an adder. "Lied like the serpent that charms the little sparrow, while guarding its young."
"But you are a woman and can save me," and she flung herself at her feet.
"Woman?" screamed the squaw with a horrible laugh that made the rocks ring. "Metiz a woman! She is a devil, and all the tribe fear her. When you have seen every thing you love—father, mother, sisters, brothers, and husband and children murdered by the pale-face; when your hair has been turned, and you have lived in a howling wilderness alone, for the Manitou only knows how many winters, what will you be then? No, the chief lied! He hates the pale-face, even as I do. But talk not to me of them—let me get out of your sight, or I might be tempted to drive a knife into your heart, even as your people did through those of mine," and she fled muttering the wildest imprecations.
Then the full horror of her situation burst upon the mind of the poor girl, and bowing her head, she wept bitter tears.
But should she wait the return of the brutal Indian? Was not any fate better than to be his wife? She had seen enough to know, in all its brutality, what it meant with one of their own race, and knew it would be infinitely worse with her. Yes, she would run away, and that quickly, forgetting what she had heard about the woods being filled with wild beasts.
She crept to the door of the wigwam and looked out—could see nothing of the fiendish old woman, and stepped to the outer side. But she had hardly passed the threshold before her grim guardian presented herself, and whirling her tomahawk, demanded her purpose.
"I was simply taking the fresh air," replied Olive, to throw her off her guard.
"Then let her lift the skins of the wigwam. To walk from it, will be to walk into her grave."
It would have been useless to attempt to either resist or argue, and the fair prisoner sauntered back, baffled for the time, but without having her purpose changed in the least. She would wait until night came, and then make another effort for freedom, even if she died in doing it. But could she escape she might release her lover, and together they could fly to safety and happiness.
The hours passed—how long and bitter to her, and night came at length. She lay upon the floor of the wigwam with the curtain slightly raised, peering out at the other, and listening, as she had never done before, to every sound. At length she became convinced that the dreadful old crone had gone to rest, and wrapping her garments closely around her, she stepped forth to the long coveted freedom—the blessed boon she had never had the least idea of before. Her heart beat with lightning-like rapidity—she seemed to tread upon air! Then a heavy hand was laid upon her, she was hurled backward, and a croaking, angry voice breathed in her ears:
"The pale-face squaw would run away, and must die!"
"Mercy."
"Did her race show any mercy to mine? Did they spare a single one? My brain is mad with blood. Every thing is red—red!"
Poor Olive! She saw in the semi-light, the flash of a long knife, the gleaming of the terrible eyes, burning with madness—saw the long, skinny arm that was raised to give strength to the blow—exerted all her own. With the power of despair she struggled to her feet, and grappled with the murderess. They fell together. An iron grasp was fastened upon her slender throat, and she knew her last hour had come. But with a mighty effort she tore loose, and disappeared in the darkness down the steep mountain side—fled she knew not whither, with many an arrow whistling over her head.
And soon she would have paused for rest, for she had often fallen and was sorely bruised, had she not fancied that she heard the tread of a swiftly-ridden horse, and believed the false-hearted Indian was upon her track, or at least soon would be. Nerved by this, she pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the fastness of the forest, tumbling over rocks, tearing her dress and soft flesh upon the sharp thorns, creeping among the tangled roots, with the face scratched by the low-growing branches, and her feet cut, and numbed, and bleeding. Onward till she could do no more, and sunk down as if ready to die.
A low but startling growl aroused her. She looked wildly around, and saw, to her horror, the form of some beast crouching upon a limb above her, ready for its spring—saw the great mouth, the long, sharp teeth, the blood-red tongue, the eyes like balls of fire—knew that a panther had trailed her—would instantly leap upon and tear her to pieces, and with a great cry of agony fell insensible to the ground.
CHAPTER IX.
I-RON-YAH-TEK-HA
"It beats human natur', Burning Cloud," said Wash Lawton, the scout, as he lay concealed in a deep crevice of the rocks, craftily covered by bushes and dirt and stones so as to resemble the natural surface of the hill, and at but a little distance from the spot where he had fallen—"it beats human natur' how yer could hev got me out of ther scrape, and it war jest the tightest I war ever in durin' all my days."
"The daughter of the red-man," replied the Indian girl, who was his companion, "has never forgotten his kindness when his pale-faced brother—but not in heart, for one is white as the snow, and the other as black and treacherous as a thunder-cloud—would have buried his tomahawk in her head, and she with one arm broken and useless."
"It was er mean, cowardly trick, that am er fact, but I hain't half as well able to pertect myself as you war. I feel jest as ef I had been run through er boom full of logs in er spring freshet, and as ef every drop of blood in my carcass had settled inter my brains."
And so indeed he looked. His eyes were still so much bloodshot that the iris could not be distinguished, while the skin of his face was swollen as if blood had been forced through every pore, despite the constant bathing with cool water by the gentle hands of his savior and nurse.
"The pale-face would soon have gone to the land of spirits," she continued, "had he not been released."
"But how did yer manage it? Sartinly yer could never have climbed down ther face of ther rocks."
"A bird could scarcely have found footing."
"Then how in ther name of common sense did yer do it?"
"I-ron-yah-tek-ha (using her uncouth Indian name, though the scout always did the interpretation of "Burning Cloud," or more commonly, "Cloud,") was watching the pale-face who had been kind to her—followed as he ran—saw him when he fell, and as soon as the braves disappeared, she made a strong line of deer-skin, looped it about a tree above, clambered down and drew it after her."
"It was bravely done, Cloud—bravely done."
"Then she fastened him so that he would not fall, cut away the limb that held him like a wolf in a trap, lowered him down and dragged him to this spot, thanking the Manitou that he was not dead."
"But most mighty near to it, I kin tell yer. And I must have had a hard time on it, fer my huntin'-shirt and leggins am clean tore off."
"They are hanging still in the tree-top," replied the squaw, with a low and musical laugh.
"Hangin' in the tree-top! What in thunder am they thar fer, I'd like ter know?"
"The eyes of the red-man are like those of the lynx, and his cunning that of the serpent."
"Oho!" and the laugh that followed, even though the ever-cautious one of a trapper, made him fairly groan with pain, so sore was he in every muscle. "Ha! ha! I see it all now. Yer knew ef yer didn't fool 'em in that manner, they would bin erlookin' eround ter see what had become of me, fer it wasn't likely I'd rot and fall ter pieces so soon."
The girl nodded, and the smile upon her face, in connection with her kindness, made her very beautiful, and he continued:
"So yer jest took ther buck-skins and stuffed them and fixed on ther cap and hung them up, and it was so fa'r that even ther sharp eyes of ther warriors couldn't tell whether it was er dead man or not."
"And snared a rabbit and placed it where the head of the pale-face should have been."
"What in thunderation was that fer?"
The rest he could see through plainly, but that troubled him—was a puzzle he could not understand, experienced as he was in all manner of woodland subterfuges.
"That the birds would gather around and pick at it."
"As they would have done at my poor head and eyes ef they had bin thar! Give me a woman fer cunnin, arter all!" and he rolled backward and forward over the soft, thick bed she had prepared, in the excess of his merriment at the manner in which the crafty warriors had been deceived.
"The red-men knew well what would follow if the pale-face had remained," she answered, with a gratified look at his praises, and proceeded to describe more at length the difficulties she had encountered.
"Yes, yer must have had a hard time on it gittin' me heah. I ain't none of ther lightest or you none ther strongest, and you couldn't well have carried me."
"The daughter of the red-man raised the body in her arms, and though his moccasins left a trail she easily covered it up."
"And yer took all this trouble jest because I happened tew do what any good man would have done?"
"The Sioux never forget."
If he had not been so entirely intent upon his own thoughts and the skill she had displayed, he would have noticed her softly-beaming eyes, and that the hot blood surged up from her heart and flushed even the olive of her cheeks—that his stalwart frame and kindness had wakened the most powerful passion in her heart, notwithstanding,
"She had struggled hard and longAgainst her love, and reasoned with her heart,As simple Indian maiden might."
"She had struggled hard and longAgainst her love, and reasoned with her heart,As simple Indian maiden might."
"She had struggled hard and long
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart,
As simple Indian maiden might."
But he was not yet in a situation—was far too much shaken to give a single thought to any thing but himself and his wonderful escape, and went recklessly on.
"I know, Cloud, yer people remember er good deed as well as er bad one, and never forgit revenge, and I only hope I kin make it even with yer some time, and I will ef I live."
"The pale-face is safe from the dark Manitou of death."
"Yes, for the present, I reckon, though I wouldn't be good fer much in a foot-race or a fight."
"There are barks and roots in the forest that will make him well again."
"The sooner the better."
"I will go gather and steep them, for I dare not build a fire here."
"Yer right, Cloud. Thar'll be sharp eyes on ther valley fer er long time and any thin' out of ther common would draw er crowd of warriors. But will yer not be in danger yerself?"
"I would do much more for the pale chief," she replied, in a trembling voice, and quickly left his side that her feelings might not betray her.
The time she was away appeared very long to the scout, and when she returned he saw from her agitated manner that something uncommon had happened, and taking her hand kindly, he asked, with far more of tenderness than he was aware of:
"What's ther matter, Cloud? Has anybody bin erbusin' yer? Ef so, jest tell me and when I git on my feet ag'in I'll thresh ther ground with him."
"A young brave—"
"Ha! er lover!" he interrupted, and the sound of the word though uttered by his own lips grated harshly upon his ears.
"A young brave sought her side as the buck does that of the doe and would have remained there."
"Then yer drove him erway, Cloud?"
"Had it not been for the pale chief I would have done so forever."
"What had I tew do with it?"
"If I had made him an enemy he might have followed and found you."
"That's jest as true as gospil and I hain't in no condition tew take my own part ner yours nuther, jest now."
"I wear a knife."
"Yes, and hain't got no use of but one arm. But what did ther painted raskil want?"
She busied herself with bathing his swollen neck, kept her face bowed and pretended not to hear, and he continued:
"War he er lover, Cloud?"
"He has often told me he loved me," she responded in a low voice, being thus compelled to answer.
"And don't yer love him? Ef he am er likely young feller, and will git ter be er warrior some day, I don't see why you shouldn't do so."
"She loves but one."
"Wal," he replied, with a laugh, and not even then penetrating through her disguise, "I never knew er woman ter take er likin' ter two men at the same time."
"Let the pale-face drink and try to sleep," she said. "The child of the red-man will stay and watch him as long as she dares. Then she will pray the Great Spirit to keep guard over him until she comes and brings him food in the morning."
"Yes. I do feel kinder sleepy, but I know I hain't more'n half thanked yer fer what yer've done. Howsomever I will do so when I get better. But can't yer git me er drink of cool water fust? I'm dry as er stump that has been dead for forty years."
"The spring is not distant," she replied, going quickly to comply with the request.
"I can't understand the actions of ther red-skinned critter at all," he muttered to himself under his breath. "She am ther pootiest squaw I ever sot my eyes on, and has saved my life and bin very good ter me. I wonder ef she kin have taken er fancy ter me? Here she comes ergin, and ef I hain't er fool, I'll find out what it all means, and ef she would consent ter take pot-luck with er poor trapper like me, I shan't be backward, fer ter tell ther truth I never saw er woman I sot so much store by."
After the water had been drank and a brief conversation followed, the scout stretched himself out for slumber, her last words being:
"I will watch until the pale chief sleeps soundly. Then I will go to my wigwam, for I must not be missed from there. Should he wake he must drink of this (pointing to a muckuc of birch bark) and when she comes again all pain will have left him and he will be fit to take the trail."
"Wal Cloud, yer ther dearest and best Medicine I ever knew. Good-night."
She sat motionless for a long time, watching his face as intently as a fond mother might have done a child. Then his heavy and regular breathing convinced her that he was asleep. But she must be certain beyond the shadow of a doubt before she could give way to the promptings of her heart, and lighting a little strip of inflammable bark she held it close to his eyes. No flinching of muscles or winking of lids betray consciousness, and bending over him she breathed in the softest of whispers as her lips touched his:
"Ne-ne-moosha, sweetheart, how much I love you!"
"And so do I you, Cloud!" replied the scout, who had been watching her—"playin' 'possum," as he would have said—as he sprung up suddenly and clasped her in his arms and returned her caresses with usurious interest.
She tried to escape, but could not, had been fairly caught, and yielded gracefully while the hunter continued in his rough but honest and warm, great-hearted way to tell her of his affection.
"I knew I kinder liked yer," he said, as he twined his arm around and drew her close to his side, "ther very fust time I ever sot my eyes on yer, but I didn't know how much ontil I heard yer talkin' erbout ther young brave. Then it all come ter me in er minit. Howsomever, it am all right now, and jest as soon as I kin git out of this ar' infernal scrape we'll travel to whar we kin build er wigwam and live in peace."
"The pale-face is a great chief, brave and handsome," she replied, looking into his face with bashful confusion, though making no effort to conceal either her great admiration or love.
"Wal, I don't know erbout ther handsome part," he replied with a laugh, "but I do know you have become very dear ter me. And do yer love me so much?"
"He has become the Manitou of her heart."
"That's lovin' most mighty well, Cloud. Give me ernuther kiss. I hain't had er single one before since my poor mother kissed me, and that's many er long year ergo."
"If any thing should happen to him she would die," she replied, with tears gathering in her eyes as she reluctantly tore herself away and prepared for departure.
But yet she lingered for a long time. She, both of them were learning for the first time what bliss there was in loving, and it was not until after the squaw had soothed her white lover into real slumber that she turned her reluctant feet home. But once having started her speed almost rivaled that of a deer.
Yet broken would have been her slumbers and her dreams far other than the heaven of lovers, could she have been aware that the moment after she had started, a dark, painted form crept out from the concealment of the bushes, where every word must have been audible to him, and took her place by the side of the sleeper.
It was the young brave who had sought to gain her love!
But his face told of another and far more deadly passion now, and more than once his knife was raised to find a bloody sheath. Yet he refrained from striking. His subtly-working brain was devising a far more terrible vengeance—one that would strike terror into the heart of the Burning Cloud as well. And yet the leaving of a scalp so easily to be obtained, and one that would bring him so much of renown, was hard for his nature—the most severe trial of his life thus far.
But might it not be that he could force the squaw to become his wife—or at least bribe her to do so—the bribe being her lover's life?
It was as he conceived a brilliant idea, and drawing back without staining his soul or his hands with murder, he left the sleeper to his rest, and followed the girl to the wigwam—saw her—related what he had seen, and attempted to carry out his plans.
But she laughed at him and his threats, and when he told the story to the warriors, dared him to the proof.
"The morning will decide," he said, sullenly.
And decide it did. The warriors and the spy and the girl went to the spot he designated, and found nothing of any such place of concealment as he had described, but a torrent foaming through the rocky gorge that bore no impress of ever having been in another place since creation!
CHAPTER X.
THE TORTURES OF THE MEDICINE.
With the white Medicine completely in his power and at his mercy, the red one determined to make him reveal every secret charm and mystery—every trick of juggling that he could possibly turn to account to extend his influence over the tribe.
To do this he must be certain that no one should be any the wiser—that there was no spy upon his movements, and so he gave public notice that the Manitou would be very angry with any one who even visited the vicinity where he was confined.
In this respect at least he was obeyed, for there was no longer any interest taken in his fate, and the more especially as they believed the scout was dead, and the white girl had stolen away, and most likely perished in the wilderness.
With matters thus arranged it was easy for him to carry out his purposes without danger of molestation, and he secretly took his departure for the cavern, removed a sufficiency of the wall to enable him to creep through, replaced it again to baffle any curious eyes, and lighting a taper (formed of wax and bear's grease) took his place by the fettered and helpless prisoner, and began tormenting him, though at first by words.
"How does the pale-faced dog like the prison-house of the red-man?" he questioned, in a sneering voice.
"It is a good place to die as any other," replied the physician, somewhat cheered even by his presence, and resolved to show bravery if he did not feel it, and find out, if possible, what had become of his lost love.
"Would he live?"
"Who would not?"
"What would he give for life and freedom?"
"Any thing."
"Then let him tell how he got clear from the many thongs that were knotted around him."
"Remove the stones and I will show you."
"Is the Medicine a fool?"
"It is the only way I can explain, so that you will understand."
"The tongue of the pale-face is used to traveling a crooked trail, but the snows of many winters have fallen upon the head of the Medicine of the Sioux, and brought wisdom," and then, as a further temptation to the revelation, he continued: "Would he not learn of the squaw whose skin is like the blossom of the prairie rose?"
"I would be willing to die, if I could but know that she had escaped from the power of that black-hearted ruffian."
"If I will tell, will you reveal the secrets by which you make yourself great among your people?"
"Yes, any thing that is in my power."
"She fled in the night, and the pale-face can not find her."
"Heaven be thanked!"
"But neither can the red-man, though they have tracked her as the starving wolf does the wounded and blood-dropping deer."
"Then she must be lost in the wilderness."
"Where the wild beasts roam," answered the red-man, with almost fiendish delight.
It was a terrible consummation of the bright dream of love, and yet, any thing was better than to think of her being the reluctant and agonized wife of the remorseless renegade. Even death was a release from never to be told suffering, and through the profound darkness, there is a very faint hope of escape.
"Now," resumed the old trickster, "let the pale-face tell how he untied himself."
"I can not without showing you."
"And how he made the voice that the red-man took for those of a spirit?"
"It is a gift of nature, improved by practice," and he gave an illustration of the peculiar powers of a ventriloquist.
"And how he made my arm like iron?"
"That, also, is a gift—the exercise of a concentrated will," and he related the manner of mesmerism.
But do what he might he could not illuminate the stolid mind of the Indian—could not produce any tangible illustrations, and consequently could not satisfy him, and his face turned still blacker, and became even more hideous with anger, as he thundered, "The pale-face lies! He will make him tell what he wishes to know. Before he has done with him, he will whine like a whipped dog—cry like a sick pappoose, beg like a coward for his life, and be glad to tell every thing that is concealed within his black heart."
Never was a poor wretch more at the mercy of his torturer. Besides the bonds with which he had been fettered, and which cut deeply into the flesh, his limbs were loaded down with heavy stones, so that while they did not actually crush they yet restricted every movement. Then, too, he was already beginning to suffer from the combined effects of hunger and thirst.
"The pale-face handled and swallowed red-hot coals," said the Medicine, savagely. "Let him keep the fire from burning him now if he can!"
Slowly, and by the exercise of more strength than his withered frame would have been thought to possess, the Indian removed the stones from about his feet and kindled a fire there that would scorch, blister, burn deeply and yet be in no danger of taking life. He was experienced in this kind of torture, and knew well how far it could be carried.
An icy sweat burst over the miserable prisoner—great drops stood upon his brow. His agony was frightful. He could have screamed for pain, and forced his tongue between his teeth to prevent his doing so, though he could not keep the smoking flesh from wincing.
"Will the pale-face confess?" asked the diabolical old torturer, as he held a cup of cold water to the parching lips, and then, as they were strained open to swallow, swiftly removed it again.
"I have told you all I can," gasped the suffering man, adding beneath his breath: "Oh! God, have mercy upon me!"
"It is a lie!"
The tortures were renewed—the fire drawn still a little closer, and to make the horror more intense, the swollen, blistered feet were scarified with the point of a sharp knife and the blood and water spurted forth and hissed upon the glowing coals.
"Will the pale-face tell?"
"I can not—can not, more than I have already done."
He felt as if he would instantly expire. Yet his professional knowledge told him such would not be the case—that human nature could endure such suffering, severe though it was, for hours. And as the old fiend bent over him, with looks of hatred and ferocity lighting up his dark features, he registered the most solemn oath that ever was formed within a human soul, that if he should survive and gain his freedom he would rival him in revenge.
But when to the tortures of fire was added the equally terrible one of water falling drop by drop upon his head, he felt that his agony was fast becoming too great for endurance—every fiber of his frame shuddered, and he knew that he was rapidly becoming insane.
Then he would have bartered every particle of knowledge he possessed for a respite from pain, no matter how brief, and did all that was in his power to tell his tormentor what he was so anxious to know. But it was without avail. The fire still raged, and blistered, and burned—the skin was beginning to crumble away, shriveling up like parchment and gaping cracks appearing in the flesh!
Even the Medicine saw that it would not do to carry it further, and kicking aside the brands he drew some ointment from his pouch, dressed the horribly-burned feet, and with the very refinement of cruelty, said:
"To-morrow all the fire will be removed, and the sores begin to heal, for this salve is famous among the red-men. Then I will come and burn again!"
The poor white man fancied, and a prayer of thankfulness went upward from his heart at the thought, that his torture for the time was ended. But it was not so. It was to be continued in a different manner—one equally difficult to bear, though bringing with it little danger.
Tearing the garments from about his body and as far as he could well do from his limbs, the demon in human shape produced a bag of nettles and began rubbing the exposed flesh, leaving such a fierce, fiery, stinging sensation that even more than fire tended to drive the victim mad.
"Ho! ho!" shouted the Medicine, making the cavern echo with his derisive and joyous laughter. "How do you like this? Where are the spirits now that you boasted you could summon at your pleasure? Why do they not come and save you?"
"'Taunt as you may!" replied the prisoner, choking down the great gasps of pain, "but your day will come, and then, God help you!"
"The Manitou of the pale-face is a dog."
There were other and equally bitter tortures floating through the mind of the Medicine, but he was forced to reserve them until another occasion. His pleasure in the suffering of the helpless prisoner was too great to be glutted at once, and so he gave him both food and drink to refresh and sustain him. Besides he believed he would yet accomplish his purpose of extorting the secrets he desired, and would prolong human suffering to any extent to do so.
Again the prisoner was left alone and in the darkness, suffering, almost dying, and even when worn out and he slumbered, his sufferings could only have been equaled by those of the bottomless pit.
CHAPTER XI.
THE RENEGADE.
With the peculiar cunning that belongs to such dastardly-minded men, George Parsons watched for some sign of the beautiful Olive, but without success. He could neither find a token or a trace. That she was hidden somewhere in the neighborhood he did not doubt any more than that she had been spirited away by some of the Indians who were jealous of him. But, failing to ascertain any thing, he resolved upon blinding the eyes of the Indians for a time; so proclaiming his wish to settle among them and become a chief, he boldly began wooing a young squaw for his bride, little thinking that the one whom he had so brutally intended to destroy was keeping an eye upon his movements and silently nursing her revenge.
Yet such was the case. The Burning Cloud had persistently avoided him, or when forced to be seen by him, had been so effectually muffled and disguised that he did not recognize her. In fact he had almost forgotten the episode of their meeting amid the other excitements, and not having seen her was led to believe that she did not belong to that portion of the tribe, and soon gave the matter no further thought.
But she never failed to keep track of all his movements, and as soon as she learned that he was endeavoring to gain the affections of one (who chanced to be a friend and an intimate) of their number, she resolved to ascertain what his intentions really were, for, with a woman's penetration she saw that something was hidden.
First, however, she must take the girl whom he destined to make his wife into her confidence, and obtain from her a pledge of secrecy, as well as to put her upon her guard against a love that could only prove disastrous. This was not difficult. Indian girls love mystery as well as their fairer-skinned sisters, and it was so arranged that the Burning Cloud became an unseen witness of many of their interviews.
The girl played her part well. It was subtle treachery against treachery. She led him on by the arts well known to all women—by a skillful management of sighs and voice and eyes, until he plainly told her of his love, and urged her to consent to immediately become his wife. Then she played the coquette—refused him even a kiss, but, after long pleading, promised to meet him the next evening, when no one could see or hear them, and give him an answer.
The delay chafed, but he was forced to be satisfied, and when the appointed time came, he found the young squaw waiting for him at the trysting, though the spot she had chosen was so dark that he knew not of her presence until she called him by a name given by the tribe—and a very appropriate one it was.
"The eyes of White Wolf are not sharp," she said, with a low laugh at the manner in which he started, "and his heart beats not warm or it would have told him who was near."
"Why, Little Raven," he replied, "it is so dark that I could not see any thing—so dark that I was afraid you would not dare to come."
"What should she fear? Her heart is pure and her trail an open one. She is willing the Great Spirit should see both—should know her every thought."
"Why do you speak so low, and in a changed voice?"
"There is more than one of the braves jealous of White Wolf, and until Little Raven becomes his wife and has found a home in his wigwam, she would not have any one know of their meeting."
"That is well enough. But, come nearer to me. Let me put my arm around you, and give me a kiss."
"Is it thus the white squaws treat their lovers?"
"Certainly."
"The red one keeps her favors for her husband," was the proud response. "He would have the flower before the dew is brushed from it, or not at all."
"That's prudish, Raven. But who is there to see?"
"The stars and the Manitou."
"Pshaw! Your coming to-night tells me that you will be my wife, and why should there any longer be formality between us?"
"Does not the pale-face bring gifts to the wigwam of her he loves?"
"Yes, and you shall have them in plenty after we are married. Then I am going back to my people for a little time, and when I come again you shall have beads and ribbons and every thing you desire."
"Why does he go if he wishes to become a chieftain of the Sioux?"
"To get guns and powder."
"But what will he say when they ask him what has become of the pale squaw who was in his company?" she asked, gently leading him on.
"I don't know; shall have to tell some kind of a story. What do you think has become of her, Little Raven?" and the tone of his voice told her sensitive ear that he was very far from having lost his interest in her.
"The pale-face has hidden her, and will bring her back, when he wills, to his wigwam."
"What, when you are to be my wife?"
"Are the chiefs of the pale-faces so poor that they can not have but one wife? The red warrior has many."
"I hadn't thought of that, but the fact is I don't know where she is, though I have searched far and near, and intend to continue to do so."
"Then you do love her?"
"No; I hate her, and would soon hand her over to the tribe for torture. If you will find her, Raven, I will give you any thing you ask."
"If I should, I would drive a knife through her heart."
"What in the name of heaven would you do that for?" he asked, earnestly, and with far more of feeling than he intended to display.
"So that she could not come between me and the love of White Wolf."
"That would never do. She must not be injured, even in a hair of her head."
She had found out all she desired to know of the state of his heart—knew just as plainly as if he had told her that he still coveted the lovely white girl, and changing the subject, asked:
"Will the pale-face take the Raven, after he has made her his wife, with him when he goes to visit his people?"
"That I couldn't do."
"And he will soon come back?"
"Very soon. I may not be gone over a week."
"Will he tell the warriors of his plans?"
"No, why should he?"
"They are to be his brothers."
"Does each tell the other when he starts upon a hunting-trail or for scalps?"
"When there is any great purpose, yes."
"Well, I don't choose to do so. But, Raven, I want you to keep a sharp look-out for the white girl while I am gone. Will you do so?"
"The eyes and ears of the Little Raven will be open."
"And you need not say what I have gone for to any one. I shall give out that it is to hunt; that will be enough."
"When will White Wolf start?"
"I don't know. When will you marry me?"
"When you come back, ask me."
"Why not answer it now?"
"Because he might never return, and then the girls of the tribe would point their fingers at her and cry out shame!"
"I am certain to come back," and had he finished the sentence as it was in his thoughts it would have been with, "for vengeance upon your cursed race who have robbed me of Olive."
"If so soon, he can wait until then for the Little Raven to fill his wigwam, and he can bring presents to make her gay for her bridal."
That he did not wish the bride to know of his intentions was proof positive to her mind of treachery, and though the conversation drifted into love matters and he protested it in the most ardent fashion, yet she kept him at a distance and would not permit him to enjoy caresses in the slightest degree. But she managed to convince him (though without pledging herself) that she adored him more than all the world—would keep his secrets and be true to him in all respects, and when they separated he believed her heart to be all his own.
There would, however, have been a great revulsion in his feelings if he could have seen how she doubled like a hare upon her trail as soon as his back was turned, and entered the village by another path—how she flung aside her blanket and the face that was revealed was stamped with any thing but tender emotions—was that of the Burning Cloud!
But he met the Little Raven soon afterward, and they had a long and familiar conversation (though without referring to what had already transpired that night), and she managed to deepen still more the impression he had received, and he felt that he was playing the part of a scoundrel. But, the heart of woman was nothing more than a straw, and he cared as little about breaking it.
With all his arrangements perfected, he took his rifle upon the following morning and started out as if for a brief hunt, passing the Little Raven, pausing and bidding her a kind farewell. But he also passed another who knew far more, and whom he did not see.
Burning Cloud was peeping at him through the curtains of her wigwam, and as soon as he had disappeared turned to her brother—a young warrior of very noble face and figure, and whispered:
"Follow him as the wolf follows the wounded buffalo, as the eagle does the dove—the panther the young doe. Be ever near him and yet never in sight. Hear every word that issues from his lips but let yours be dumb as death. Be secret as the mole and crafty as the spider. Let your footsteps be as light as the falling snowflake, and your ear as sharp as the stag. Let nothing escape you. More than you dream of hangs upon what you may learn—perhaps even the fate of the whole tribe. If he turns back, bring me the news before he can get half the way. Let nothing stop you, fire or tempest, heat or cold, sunshine or rain, hunger, thirst, sleep, rest, thunder or lightning. But should he not come back," and her eyes flashed still more vividly and her frame trembled with wild excitement, "should he attempt to fly like a loon-hearted coward, this!" and she handed him a long knife that had been ground to razor-like sharpness, "and bring back his scalp or come not at all."
"My ears are like the soft earth in the springtime to receive, and like it when frozen in the winter to retain," he said, and slowly disappeared from the village, as active, crafty and well-prepared a spy as ever followed trail for knowledge or for blood!
For two days and two nights he tracked the white man. Then the trail of the emigrants was reached, and he easily divined that the object of the renegade was to intercept some passing train, and fortune favored him. He saw one toiling along in the distance, knew where it would camp, reached the spot ahead of them, and when Parsons came up was hidden so as to watch all that happened—watch and listen.
Free tongue was given to the conversation, and the spy heard it all. Then, and without waiting for the light, he turned homeward, and scarcely a deer could have traveled more swiftly—traveled without the slightest pause for rest—burst, travel-stained, into the wigwam of his sister even while she was sleeping, and the single word he uttered was the condensation of all he had to tell. It was:
"Naudoway—see!"
CHAPTER XII.
IN THE FOREST.
The sudden fainting and falling of the wretched night-wandering Olive saved her life.
The panther had been startled by her shrill screams, miscalculated the distance, leaped over her and was instantly engaged in deadly warfare with another of its kind, that had also come upon the same errand—was stealing along like a grim ghost through the bushes, and was hurled to the earth by the one that leaped from the tree.
But the poor girl fortunately knew nothing of the savage duel—heard nothing of the snarling, tearing, ripping—the snapping of jaws—the rending of claws—the terrible howls. All that was spared her, and when she awoke to something of consciousness she crawled in an opposite direction, though wondering very much as she paused to rest in the sunshine, that streamed through the tree-tops, how her dress should have become so spotted with blood—which she believed came from human veins.
Refreshing herself from a cool spring that trickled out from the mossy interstices of a rock, she endeavored to think of what it was best to do. Of her exact locality she had no conception, but after an hour of reflection she believed she knew the course to the valley, where her lover had been walled in, and following the dictation of her heart, womanlike, rather than her reason, she determined upon the desperate task of finding and releasing him.
But how difficult the undertaking she was soon convinced—difficult and dangerous. More than once she fled in alarm from a rustling in the bushes—once she stood almost face to face with a great, gaunt timber-wolf—once she trod upon a shining, scaly serpent, whose horrid hissings rung in her ears for hours afterward, making her very flesh creep.
It was a terribly long, tedious, laborious, foodless day, and when night gathered around she sought and found a large hollow tree, gathered branches, crept within, barricaded it, and, with a fervent prayer to Heaven, was soon lost in the deepest slumber of all her young lifetime.
Yet even blessed rest was denied her. Scarcely an hour had passed before she was awakened by something scratching without, and saw two red eyes peering in at her that flashed angry lightnings, while a deep roar told of some wild beast. Then she intuitively knew all that was to come—knew how much she was at the mercy of some savage monster!
She had taken up her quarters in the home of one of the huge bears of the mountains, and it was returning to its cubs!
Guided far more by impulse than reason, she grasped one of the largest of the branches and struck the hideous beast in the face, and then, as it drew back in astonishment, she sprung forth screaming, to the full extent of her lungs—sprung forth and ran swiftly away, the bear following, and it would very soon have torn her limb from limb had not the plaintive cries of its cubs recalled it, and with nature triumphing over passion it returned to the tree, giving her an opportunity to escape.
What should she do? She dared neither to stand still or go on—had lost all her reckoning—knew not in what direction she was going—was fainting from hunger—was powerless to protect herself. But with constant prayer for him she loved as well as her own safety she continued to wander, momentarily expecting to be confronted by some of the monsters of the forest. And so utterly hopeless became her state that she would have gladly gone back to the wigwams of the Indians, foolishly believing that her condition would excite their pity, had she known the way—have gone like a bleeding lamb into the den of wolves.
Slower became her journeying—fainter was her breath drawn. She could scarcely draw one poor bruised foot after the other, and it was evident even to her reeling senses that her end was very near—that she would soon have to perish in the wilderness—die alone without a single soul to pity, or kindly hand to close her eyes, and that her body would become the sport of wolves' whelps and foul carrion birds.
The idea was too horrible to be calmly endured, and a great cry of misery escaped from her fevered lips. She reeled against a tree, grasped it within her arms, and stood motionless as if turned into stone. The greatest horror of her existence had burst suddenly upon her. She saw by the dim light of the early morning that an Indian was coming toward her—knew that he had heard her screaming—knew that it was her fearful enemy, Muck-a-kee!
In an instant he was by her side and his heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder, and his harsh voice hissed into her trembling ears:
"So the pale-face thought to escape and has nearly perished in the wilderness? But she will wander no more. The wings of the dove shall be clipped so that she can not fly, and the limbs of the doe fettered so that she can not run."
"Merciful God, protect me," was all that she could gasp, as she was hurried along with more than brutal rapidity.
"The red-man has been constantly upon her trail," he continued, "since she escaped from the wigwam of old Metiz. He has followed her fast and far. Now she shall never leave his side again. Where he goes she shall go and he will make her obey."
"Where, oh, where are you going to take me?"
"Far away from even the village of his tribe. There he will keep her until her proud spirit is broken. He will tame her by hunger and thirst, and heavy loads, and the whip, and—"
"Oh, misery!"
"It is the song she will sing until death!"
Striking in a directly opposite direction to that of the encampment of the tribe, he soon emerged from the timber, and much to her comfort, even if not joy, she was lifted upon a horse and carried along until near noon. Then a swift-winged bullet suddenly put a stop to their course. It had pierced the skull of the horse, and he reared and fell backward, carrying his riders to the ground with him, and, as it appeared, crushing the Indian under him and hurling the girl to some distance, where she lay crippled, even if not dead.
Then the renegade Parsons issued from the woods, cautiously approached and crept around to obtain a better view before venturing nearer. But at length he became convinced that the Indian was powerless to do harm.
But, true to his training, the chief had counterfeited death to draw the white man to him, for, save his knife and hatchet, he was weaponless; and the instant the white man came within reach he sprung up and upon him with a yell of delight.
But, if a traitor and black-hearted villain, George Parsons was a good fighter when the test came—was muscular and desperate. He met the red warrior without flinching, and though the heavy buck-skin garments he wore protected him very much, while his antagonist was naked, save the shaggy bear-skin about his loins, yet the battle would have been a long one and doubtful had not his foot caught in a hole in the prairie, causing him to lose his balance and be thrown heavily.
Hurled backward upon the ground, the white man was at the mercy of one who never knew of such a thing, even in name, and who had many motives besides life and gaining the scalp of his enemy for winning the battle.
Quick as thought the Indian was upon the renegade, kneeling upon his arms and rendering them useless, while he felt of the point of his knife with a smile, and then ran his fingers along the ribs to make certain of the locality of the heart. But yet he hesitated to strike, and his face wore the look of the serpent when the bird is completely within its power, and it has only to dart out its forked tongue to bring death.
"Will the pale dog beg for his life?" he asked.
"Never!" was the reply of Parsons, knowing how useless it would be to do so.
"Then he will die!" hissed the Indian, "and with his bleeding scalp Muck-a-kee will deck the squaw of his race as he carries her away to be his wife."
"Devil!"
"The pale-face was a fool to think the girl would be his. She was destined from the first for the wigwam of the warrior."
"Oh! had I but known this!"
"It is too late, and he had better sing his death-song."
"Ha! ha! There comes a party of white men and the girl is rushing toward them."
For a single instant the red warrior forgot his cunning. He turned his head and somewhat loosened his hold. Parsons took advantage of it—wormed himself from under and sprung again to his feet. Never was the tide of battle more suddenly changed—never one renewed with more intense fury or more gallantly contested even though in a bad cause.
The knife of the Indian struck upon the hatchet of the white man and was shivered to the hilt. He flung the remnant aside with a curse upon the Manitou, and felt for his tomahawk. In the desperate struggle it had been loosened and fallen to the ground, and he was weaponless. With the cry of an enraged beast he closed with his antagonist, fastened his great teeth in his throat and hung on with the tenacity of a bull-dog. But it was his very last battle—his very last struggle.
Once—twice, the long knife of the white man was driven to his breast and twisted around with devilish malice. Then the set jaws relaxed—the eyes turned in their sockets, and the powerful chief of the Sioux fell backward to the earth, dead, and without a groan.
Smarting from pain—half-strangled—with the marks of teeth in his throat that he would carry to the grave, Parsons was forced to rest and take care of himself before he could even give a thought to the prize he had battled so desperately and nearly fatally for. But he hastened to tear away a portion of his garments, and having stanched the blood, crawled to where she was lying.
She saw him coming and attempted to fly—ran a little distance into the wood and then fell exhausted. Nature had already been too much overtaxed for her to endure more, and unless she could have rest and care, death would certainly follow and that at no great distance.
On gaining possession of Olive, the renegade would have instantly returned and joined his new-made friends the emigrants. But neither the captive nor himself was in a condition to do so and he was forced to remain. Yet scarcely had he fixed a place for a temporary encampment before there appeared before his startled eyes the Indian girl—Little Raven!
"The pale chief has found the squaw with the soft hair and skin like snow," she said, "and is taking her back to the wigwams of the red-man?"
"Yes—yes," he stammered, not daring to deny it.
"He has met a bear in the woods?" she asserted rather than asked.
"Yes," and he willingly enlarged upon the story that would save him from telling the truth.
"The Little Raven will dress his wounds," and having procured soft bark and gum she did so with exceeding skill.
"How came you here?" he asked.
"She was coming to meet her lover. Her heart longed for him as the deer for the salt-lick."
"For the love of heaven," exclaimed Olive, "save me from this brutal man. He has killed—"
"If the maiden of the white skin would live she must keep her tongue between her teeth," hissed the Indian girl, with a scowling face and half-drawing her knife.
"You are right, Raven," responded the renegade. "She must not speak, for she would utter nothing but lies."
"Has the pale chief visited his people and brought her present?" again questioned Little Raven.
"No. He found this girl and was hastening back to give her up to the tribe."
"And make Raven his wife?"
"Yes."
"Has he seen any thing of Muck-a-kee?"
"No."
"He is telling what is not true," interrupted Olive, "for he killed—"
"Let the pale squaw come again between the Raven and her lover and I will tear out her tongue!" and the knife of the squaw flashed so near her face that Olive shrunk back, covered her face with her hands and remained silent.
But when the squaw had gathered branches and made a shelter for Parsons and one at some distance for the white girl—when she had built a fire, cooked a little venison she had brought with her—had fed both—had steeped some roots and herbs and given the renegade to drink, she came and sat by her female companion with her drawn knife in her hand. Then once more Olive ventured to speak and ask:
"Will you not tell me what is to be done with me?"
"I will kill you as I would the rattlesnake that tried to bite me if you attempt to escape!" was the stern answer.
Another silence of an hour passed. Then the Little Raven arose and noiselessly sought the side of her pretended lover. She bent down so that her face almost touched his and listened long and earnestly, and having satisfied herself that his slumber was no counterfeit one, she returned to Olive, laid down beside her, and whispered:
"Now the pale squaw may talk. The ears of the chief are like those of the deaf adder. Little Raven is her friend. Let her tell all that has happened since she left the wigwams of the red-men."
"I thought you loved that man," replied Olive.
"I hate him, but he must not know it. Let the pale squaw open her heart, and it will be well for her," and she drew her companion to her and left a reassuring kiss upon her lips.
Then the poor prisoner did indeed open her heart and told all. The girl dashed out into the prairie and assured herself that the death of Muck-a-kee was no fable, and was consequently easily convinced of the truth of the rest, and after a little, persuaded Olive to sleep.
"The sun will again be high," she said, "before the eyes of the pale chief are open. The drink that Little Raven gave him will hold him next to death."
"And you will protect me?"
"With my life. But it will not be needed. Let her sleep."
The squaw released her from her warm embrace—drew her blanket over her head, and remained motionless for a long time. Then she cautiously arose, disappeared, and in an hour after was in the wigwam of the Burning Cloud.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SCOUT.
With the dawn of light the scout was astir, and began carefully investigating the ground. But he had gone over very little of it when he saw the old Medicine come sauntering along and enter his cave, that was so well guarded by beasts and reptiles. He watched until the old man came out again, trailed him as he visited the walled up spot where the physician was confined, and waited until he returned to the village, and then crawled near and gave vent to his thoughts after his own peculiar manner:
"Here am ernother of ther old devil's dens and I don't like ther looks on it nuther. But I must know all of his run-ways and what he am erbout. Besides, no one must know that I am eround and it may come handy ef I should have ter cut fer my life."
It was a wise though a dangerous resolution, and had not a party of hunters stopped directly in front of it to cook game, the suffering prisoner would have been immediately rescued. That prevented, but still he lingered near—crawled to the rocks above and watched them closely. It was at too great a distance, however, for him to hear what was being said, and curiosity drew him nearer. But he soon had occasion to regret it, for venturing upon the very verge of the cliff it crumbled beneath his weight and he rolled down like a great ball into their very midst!