The startled Indians fled in every direction, satisfied that it was the ghost of the man they had seen swinging from the tree above, and, taking advantage of their flight, the scout also disappeared, making the woods ring with hideous moans and laughter.
This story he knew would be circulated far and wide and believed by all but the Burning Cloud, and the valley avoided, especially after nightfall, so he prepared a number of rude torches, and having lighted one, he removed a stone, as the Medicine had done, and crawled into the prison-house of the nearly dead physician.
"Great God!" he exclaimed, as the sounds of suffering came to his ears, and he started back with the intention of retreating, for though he had enjoyed the fright of others he was not proof against the power of ghosts himself.
The sounds continued. Low moaning came distinctly, and straining his eyes he could discover nothing but a pile of stones, that so much resembled a grave as to make him shudder. Yes, it must be a ghost that was luring him to destruction, and the fate of the physician hung upon the most slender of threads.
"For the love of heaven," was breathed in a faint and trembling voice, "come and put an end to my wretched life, and I will even forgive all that you have done and pray for you."
"Great thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the scout, even more astonished than he had been before, "who be yer?"
"Oh! Wash—thank God—I am the doctor."
"Ther doctor!"
He could scarcely believe what he had heard. The physician alone and in such a place, and more than all in a tomb of stones! The scout hesitated not a moment, but, kindling a fire sufficient to illuminate the cavern, he then set to work with a will to remove the stones, muttering deep and bitter curses upon the hand that had placed them there. Then followed the loosening of the bonds, and tears came into his eyes as he saw to what a state the physician had been reduced, and holding him tenderly in his arms he heard his story.
"May ther devil burn and tear him with red-hot pinchers ferever and ever," growled the scout, from between his set teeth. "But, how much you must have suffered!"
"More than tongue can tell. But what of Olive? Is she alive? Is she well?"
"Yes—I believe so. But now, doctor, I must be off. I won't be gone very long and will bring yer somethin' to eat."
"Do not stay away any longer than is necessary."
"Yer kin bet all ther beaver-skins between heah and ther Mississip, I shan't be gone any longer than I kin posserbly help. I don't fancy ther neighborhood jest now any more than yer do."
"Now," muttered the scout, as he crawled forth into the open air again, "ter find ther Cloud."
It had grown very dark and he found his way along with difficulty, but knowing the direction of the village he steadily kept it until he could distinguish the light of the fires and even hear voices. He made his way to the trysting-place in the Indian graveyard and there awaited.
He had not long to wait, however, for Burning Cloud soon stole out from the wigwams, and when she reached the blazed trees that marked the spot devoted to the dwellings of the dead, she softly called the name of her lover.
He leaped lightly forward, and drawing her to him they sat down and conversed long and earnestly, for each had very much to tell.
Then he accompanied her as near the village as he dared—lingered and caressed her—and at last would have torn himself away and retreated to a more secure place. But, even as he turned around he was confronted by half a dozen warriors who had crept like serpents around, and was instantly pinioned.
But it was joy to him to know that the squaw had escaped, and still more so that she had been mistaken for a man. This their excited conversation among themselves revealed, and when questioned he boldly gave the name of Muck-a-kee!
Dragged into the center of the wigwams he was bound to the post of torture, and great rejoicing at his capture followed. And the very thing he had at first feared came to pass. He was known, and the air rung with the name of "Beaver Tail!"
CHAPTER XIV.
PLOTTING.
"Naudoway—see!" had been the exclamation of the brother of the Burning Cloud when he dashed almost breathless into her wigwam and flung himself panting upon the floor.
She did not question further at the time. The word 'enemy' convinced her, as she had before believed, that the renegade Parsons had proved as treacherous to her nation as he had been to his own, and with the remarkable patience of her race she waited for further revelation, brought water and bathed the feet of the nearly exhausted runner, gave him food and stimulating drinks, and then filled, lighted and handed him a pipe.
"The trail of my brother has been long and swift. He has known neither rest or sleep. Will he tell his sister what he has seen?"
He related the story, taking a long time for what could have been condensed into a few words. He had followed the white man—had seen him camp with a number of his own race—armed men—with plenty of wagons and horses—had told them a false story about his wife having been captured by the red-men and that she was destined to die of torture. And, believing this, they had promised to come and help kill the entire tribe and rescue her. But he was to come first—they follow more slowly and wait in ambush until he gave the signal. Then they were to rush forward, pour in their murderous rifle-shots and slaughter indiscriminately men, women and children.
"Is that all?" questioned the girl, trembling with suppressed passion.
"Yes?"
"Does any one know of this?"
"No one but you and the Manitou."
"Then keep it hidden within your heart. Keep it until the Burning Cloud tells you to speak, and the dearest wish of your heart shall be gratified."
"Does she know?" he began asking, in confusion.
"She knows that you love the Little Raven, and she shall certainly be yours."
"But the pale-face?"
"The Ravenhateshim," and then, under her breath, "even as I love another."
"My sister will keep her promise?"
"Before the moon of the falling leaf, she shall be singing sweet songs of love in your wigwam, and for your ear alone."
"It is enough. No torture shall cause my lips to be opened to any but you."
He passed out, and as soon as he had disappeared, the squaw took from her neck the richest string of wampum she possessed. She had destined it to be the brightest ornament at her own bridal. It was one she had woven for that express purpose. Muffling it in her blanket, she walked slowly to the home of the Little Raven, and there being no one else in the wigwam, she laid it in the lap of her friend, and said, in a mysterious whisper: "This from the Young Bear!"
The eyes of the Raven flashed with as much delight as surprise. Among all the braves she would have chosen the brother of the Burning Cloud for a lover. She turned the trinket over and over, and the visitor fancied at first it would be rejected; but when she saw it pressed warmly to her lips, and placed next to her heart, she was satisfied, and boldly proclaimed the secret object of her mission.
"The false-hearted pale-faced lover of the Raven is coming back to croak into her ears his lying words. She must meet him, pretend still to love him, lure him on, see that he does not turn aside from the trail, and let the Burning Cloud know all he says and does. Then she will see that no other eyes than hers look into the heart of the Young Bear, and that he sings into no other ears than hers. He will yet be a great chief, and his name be sung in the councils of the nation."
Wild with delight at the prospect, the young and passion-swayed squaw was ready to promise any thing, and, after listening to the instructions of her wiser and sharper sister, she at once took the trail, and was seen no more in the village until she came back bursting with the news of the death of Muck-a-kee, and the capture of the white girl by the renegade lover.
The Burning Cloud inquired very minutely into all the particulars, and her face glowed with gratitude and smiles as she learned how fate had favored her.
"But, will the pale-face sleep until the Raven returns again?" she asked.
"He drank deeply of the leaves that take away all feeling," was the reply, "and the sun will be above the tree-tops before his eyes are open again."
"And the squaw with the skin like the snow?"
"She is worn to a shadow, and so tired, her moccasins would grow faint, be the trail ever so short."
"It is well. Let the Raven go sleep."
Left alone, the Burning Cloud pondered long and deeply upon her course. The skein was twisted, and she saw no way of unraveling it. The motives that swayed her were various, and each was strong. Love was the master passion, and if driven to extremity, she would sacrifice every thing to that. But revenge upon the renegade was burning strongly within her soul, and longed to be satisfied with blood. As for the beautiful Olive, gratitude to the physician would do very much for him, but yet she had no very strongly marked interest in her fate, save that she would keep her from torture.
The web was indeed strangely interwoven with bright and dark threads, and she knew not which way to turn to clear the meshes to her satisfaction. Had she known of the fate of the scout—as she did subsequently—all would have been plain. Now she was groping in the dark. But she had to decide quickly, and after all the time that could be possibly given to thought she took to the forest, trusting to chance.
Midnight had long since faded into the small hours, and knowing that it would require all of her exertions to reach the spot—to which she had been directed by the Little Raven—before the dawn, she ran as rapidly as her strength would permit. Her keen eyes, trained to the darkness, enabled her to find the way when another would have been at fault, and she was rapidly putting the miles behind her when she came to a little spring that bubbled forth in the center of a dense thicket, and paused to quench her thirst and obtain a little rest. But even as she did so she became aware that something was crashing along behind her and—it might be man or beast—she drew back, hoping to escape unnoticed.
Vain hope! A black figure almost instantly stopped by her side, and an angry voice hissed into her ears—a voice that she knew but too well:
"So you have come to meet your pale-face lover?"
"The trail is open and my foot is free," she replied. "Who dare stop me?"
"I dare."
"By what right?"
"Though you have refused to be my wife yet the honor of the tribe is mine, and you shall not disgrace it."
"Honor?" and she started as if serpent-stung.
"Ay, honor," he replied, knowing full well that the word would reach her heart more painfully than a knife would have done. "The words of the pale-face are ever false. They whisper lies into the ears of the red-men—they trail them on to shame, and when they are asked for the father of their children they can only bow their heads into the dust."
"Burning Cloud is the daughter of a great chief," she answered, drawing herself up proudly. "He who couples her name with disgrace must beware!" and she half-drew her knife.
He knew as well as she did her pride of birth, and was determined to sting her upon the most tender point.
"The daughter of a chief when she stoops to love an enemy is worse than any other."
"Who says I have done so?"
"The whole tribe."
"Then some serpent has hissed the venom in their but too willing ears."
"It is the scout, Beaver Tail, though he stole the name like a thieving dog, that she loves."
"Well?"
"He has a wife in every tribe."
"It is false as the heart of the Wahkan Shecha."
"The Evil Spirit has poisoned her ears so that she can not tell the straight trail from the crooked one."
"Who says he has a wife in every tribe?" she questioned, fiercely.
"And when sleep has fallen upon the eyes of the red-man she steals out to meet him," he continued, without giving the slightest heed to her question.
"May the Manitou curse and palsy the lips that dare to utter such lies!" and her eyes rayed out dangerous flashings.
"But the warriors will find his trail and then he will die."
"He does not fear to do so."
"Does the Burning Cloud believe the words he whispers in her ears as she lies in his arms and gives her lips to his kisses?"
Every fiber in her frame quivered with passion, and the mastery by which she restrained herself was wonderful. He had heaped upon her the deepest insults she had ever received, but she was determined to bide the time when she could safely repay them with compound interest. Now she had other ends in view—from policy restrained her impetuous temper and he went on:
"The name of the nation is blackened by Burning Cloud."
"Her trail has ever been open."
"It is hidden like that of the mole."
"What would he have her do?"
"Tell the red warriors where the dog of a pale-face is hidden, and give him up to torture."
"Well?"
"Then let her choose a husband of her own people."
"Which means you!"
He saw that she had craftily read his purpose even before he had spoken of it, and went on even more bitterly than before.
"When the children cry for the father they shall never see and beg for bread—"
She spat in his face before he could finish the sentence, so intense was her passion. Her entire soul was up in arms and she hissed back:
"Oh, that I were a man but for a moment that I might cram the foul words down your throat and tear out your lying tongue!"
He laughed tauntingly and she proceeded:
"But, woman as I am, if you dare repeat your words or say aught against my honor I will do my best to brain you on the spot and let out your black blood for the cubs of the wolf to lap and grow fat on."
"She should have been a brave," he sneered.
"I am brave. Stand aside and let me pass."
"Listen to me," and he would have placed his hand upon her arm had she not drawn back. "You shall never be the wife of the pale-face—never see him again. I have long sought for this hour and now you shall swear by the great Manitou to be mine or—"
"When you can make the mountains bow down to the valleys, then I will be your wife, but until then, never."
"Because you love the pale-face?"
"Because I hate you!"
"And you shall have reason. Not far from here is the home of the rattlesnakes. Burning Cloud knows it well. If she will not be my wife I will throw her into their midst and none will ever know of her fate. Thousands of forked tongues will be darted at her—thousands of poisoned fangs be buried in her flesh—thousands of slimy bodies crawl over and around her while still living!"
"I would rather die even thus than become your wife," she cried as she sprung upon him, as suddenly and fiercely as does the mountain-cat upon the one who would rob her of her young.
Taken entirely by surprise the Indian received a severe wound in his shoulder before he could defend himself, and then, his anger at white heat, he grappled with the squaw and endeavored to master her. It was some time however before he could disarm her, gain possession of her hands and hold them. Then they stood face to face, she completely powerless to either injure or escape.
"Now," he asked, triumphantly, "will she promise to become his wife?"
"Never!"
"Then by the Manitou he will give her to the serpents!"
She shuddered at such a terrible fate and made the most desperate efforts to escape. And he found it most difficult to drag her along. But he succeeded in doing so, inch by inch and foot by foot until at last they stood above the terrible den.
"For the last time," he asked, "will you be my wife?"
What should she answer? She could distinctly hear the clashing of countless rattles—could smell the foul odors—could see the flashing of myriads of lidless eyes—the vibrating of the forked tongues that played like lambent lightning. For all the darkness around she could see the scaly folds of the numberless savage reptiles, that, disturbed by their footsteps, wormed in a living mass like boiling waves breaking upon some rocky beach. Horrible—the like of which earth holds not, and what could she do to avert such a fate?
Renounce the scout—perjure her very soul and become the wife of the one she not only detested but who would even thus dastardly seek to make her his own? The bare thought nerved her to even greater strength, and the battle became fierce indeed.
Then, when the Indian had succeeded in dragging her to the very verge of the rocky den, a strange light burst suddenly upon their eyes, and he drew her to him, and grasping her throat, almost strangled her in his efforts to keep her silent. A light flashed upon them—the report of a rifle was heard, and, with a mighty groan the treacherous Indian sunk backward to the ground.
A rush through the bushes was heard—a little party of white hunters who were out 'shining deer,' appeared upon the scene, and one exclaimed triumphantly:
"Buck or doe, my boys, it was my shot."
"Great Heaven!" replied the one who carried the torch; "you have killed an Indian!"
"An Indian? You must be mad."
"Look for yourself."
"God forgive me, it is true. I would have sworn it was the eyes of a deer I shot at."
"You are not the first man who has been deceived in the same way. But, what shall we do with the poor devil? It won't answer to have this known. Hark! What sound is that? A rattlesnake den as I am a sinner! Here is the opening. In with him, men."
It was soon done. Though he was already dead, his body found the same resting place he would have given her living one, and that portion of the party who had promised to assist the renegade Parsons (and were waiting for him) hastily decamped.
Of the Burning Cloud they knew nothing. The instant the iron hand unclasped from her throat she had skulked into the bushes and darted swiftly away.
CHAPTER XV.
HIDDEN WORKINGS.
It was just after daylight when Olive awoke from her slumbers, but so busy had her brain been with dreams that it was some little time before she could realize her situation. Then she looked around for the squaw that had promised to be kind to her—saw that she was sitting at a little distance with her blanket drawn over her head, and whispered:
"Little Raven?" after thinking for some time upon the name she had but once heard.
"It is not Little Raven," was answered in a strange voice. "She is in the wigwams of the Sioux. What would the squaw of the pale-faces?"
"Alas! she promised to be my friend."
"And why should I not be?"
"Because all of your people appear to hate me."
"There are good and bad in every nation. One of your own race has been your worst enemy."
"It is too true. Where is he now?"
"Sleeping as the Raven left him."
"Then if you are a friend you will fly with me."
"There is no danger. The snake is scotched. He may turn his fangs upon himself but can bite no one else."
"Who are you?"
"A squaw!"
The word was accented with the most extreme bitterness, and for a moment her eyes flashed with outraged feelings, but seeing that the white girl shrunk from her in fear she smoothed her face, threw back her blanket and drawing nearer to Olive continued:
"The Burning Cloud."
"What is that?"
"My name, in the tongue of the pale-face. She is the friend of Little Raven, and will be yours. But first let me tell what you are longing to hear."
"Of whom?"
"Whose name does her heart whisper the most?"
The girl blushed until her face would have shamed the gorgeous crimson-pink of the prairie, and leaned forward anxiously; but she made no reply, and the young squaw continued:
"It is the Medicine of the pale-face, and he is safe."
"Heaven be praised!"
"She can thank the Manitou and the scout. But he has passed through terrible trials."
"Alas! that he also has had to suffer."
"When the black ravens of death were croaking into his ears, and in another hour he would have been wandering on the shores of the dark river that rolls between this and the country of souls, he waded through dangers as through a mighty flood and saved him."
"Tell me, that I may know how to thank him."
"He is himself upon the trail of death!" she replied, very slowly and sorrowfully, and with her eyes overflowing with tears. "But the Burning Cloud will save him or die!"
"You?" asked Olive, in astonishment.
"Can not one with skin like the chestnut, love as well as her who is like the lily?"
"Certainly. Hearts are the same. And you love—"
"I came not to talk of him. The Medicine is his friend, and forhissake Burning Cloud would save you. Let her get up and come with me."
"Where?"
"If she doubts, she may follow her own trail. If she trusts, she may come."
Too weak to contend, even if she had been disposed to do so, Olive arose and accompanied her to the spot where the renegade, Parsons, was lying, bound hand and foot, and loudly cursing the one that had made him so.
"Little Raven," he said, as soon as the squaw came in sight, "what does this mean?"
"Let him look again," she replied, calmly, stepping forward, so as to give him a clear view of her face.
"You—I do not know you."
"But I do you," she hissed, rather than spoke.
"No, no. You are mistaken. I have never met you before."
"The pale thief has a bad memory or lies."
"I am certain I am right."
"Listen."
She briefly recounted what had transpired at their first meeting, and he trembled as a coward, as she proceeded:
"More than that, he has lied to the Little Raven, and this poor white squaw. But the dark-mouthed wolves of death are upon his trail."
"You are wrong," he stammered.
"Wrong? Does he know her?" and she dragged the unwilling Olive forward, and turning to her, said, as she held out her knife: "Take this and revenge yourself until your heart is satisfied. Cut away his skin, little by little, until his body looks as if spotted with the small-pox. Do any thing you wish so that you do not take his life. When death comes, it must be at the hands of the red-man."
"I can not—can not!" shrieked the white girl, as she turned away in horror, even at the thought.
"It is well for him," continued the savage-minded squaw, "that our places are not changed. Then, indeed, he might have reason to tremble, for I would have led him such a dance of death as would have made him crawl like a serpent in the dust, and beg for death. But will you take no revenge upon him?"
"None—none!" still gasped Olive.
"At but a little distance is a wet spot, where the reeds grow tall and the grass rank. There the musketoes and buffalo-gnats and the great green-headed flies breed and swarm. Will she help the Burning Cloud to drag him thither, so that they may sting him like thousands of needles, poison his flesh, and suck his blood, and yet he can not brush them off?"
"No; no!"
"The heart of the pale-face is too soft. The child of the red-man could sit by his side and laugh to see his struggles, and sing when he groaned."
"For the love of heaven," pleaded the affrighted Olive, "let us leave him and get to a place of safety."
"Leave him!" answered the squaw, in a voice that thrilled with emotion. "Leave him? You know not what you ask. A life worth as many thousands of his as there are sands on the sea-shore may be hanging upon it. But we will not stay here. There is yet a long trail to be traveled. Get up, dog!"
She kicked the prostrate form and made him struggle to his feet—a difficult task for one so cunningly fettered. But at last it was accomplished, and she loosened the bandages so as to enable him to walk. Then she took a stout thong of buck-skin from her girdle, looped it around his neck so that it would cut into the flesh and strangle him in case of resistance, and dragged him forward, as miserable, guilty, terrified a wretch as could have been found upon the entire face of the earth.
"For God's sake," he gasped, "have a little mercy."
"Did you have any on this poor girl?" she asked.
"If I must die, at least leave me in peace until then."
"If I could have my way," was the fierce response, "I would tie you to the tail of an unbroken colt, turn him loose, and let him drag you until every particle of flesh was torn off from your body inch by inch. But let him be dumb, or this!" and she pressed the sharp point of her knife against his side until it penetrated through the clothing and pierced the flesh.
Avoiding the beaten trail, the squaw—followed by the white girl—led her wretched captive—often sneering at him for being the prisoner of a woman—toward the village of the Sioux. Whatever was her purpose she kept it hidden within her own brain—would answer no questions—paused only when Olive was compelled to rest, and even denied the renegade a single drop of water, and drove him forward with her knife when his pace became too slow to suit her.
But, as the day drew on and they were nearing the village of her people—were passing through a deep, dark valley so narrow that the branches of the trees on either side bent over and interlocked, she suddenly paused—motioned Olive, and forcibly dragged her captive to the ground, drew the cord still more tightly around his throat, and holding the point of her knife in one hand, directly above his heart, lifted a great stone in the other, and whispered in his shrinking ear:
"Make the slightest noise—dare but to speak—breathe louder than common, and I swear by the Manitou that I will drive the knife through you before any one can come to your assistance."
Her face, terrible in its vindictiveness, told that she would not scruple to carry out her threat, and he shivered for fear accident might accomplish it even if design did not.
He knew better than she did that they were near the spot where his new friends had encamped—that a scouting party were upon the hill directly above them—that a single call would bring them to his side—would bring him freedom. Yet he dare make no sound—was forced to motionless silence. The line that sustained his life was as brittle as a spider's web. The fierce eyes of the Indian girl were upon him—the hand that held the knife as firm as a rock. In fact a single loud breath would have ended in a parting groan, and desperate as was his situation in other respects, a sigh of relief escaped him as the little party of white men passed along and Burning Cloud laid aside the heavy stone and withdrew her terrible weapon.
"Get up," she whispered, "and go on silently. By the Manitou of the pale-man as well as the red, I will strangle you and bury my weapon in your breast if you utter a single sound or make an effort to let any know you are here."
He could do nothing but obey, and journeyed wearily on until she bade him pause. Then she gave the low, plaintive cry of the whippowil, thrice repeated, and in an instant after her brother was by her side—her brother and the Little Raven.
"You will guard him more carefully than your life or honor," commanded Burning Cloud. "Keep him here until you hear from me again. Come," she continued to Olive, who was wondering what the end of this strange journey would be, and taking her by the hand she avoided the wigwams.
"Oh! tell me," asked Olive, who, from what she had seen, was afraid of her companion, "oh! tell me where you are going to take me."
"To safety and to—Hist!"
She drew her to the ground, and covered her with her blanket—bade her lie still as death, and left her side—left her alone for what seemed months. Then she returned, and her voice was sad and step heavy.
"Him I love," she said, no longer attempting to conceal her passion, "is a prisoner, and tied to the post of torture."
"Great heaven! The scout?"
"Even him. But don't talk. Come quickly."
"You have not yet told me where?"
Burning Cloud made no answer. She hurried the girl along regardless of all obstacles, and soon stopped in front of the walled-up cavern and removed one of the stones.
"What is your lover's name?" she asked, and then, as she hesitated, continued, "Call him."
Olive did so—was answered, and a moment after they were fast locked in each other's arms, and lip was responding to lip.
"Back with the stone into its place," hoarsely commanded the squaw. "Don't stir from here on peril of your lives. Now to save him or die in the attempt!"
CHAPTER XVI.
TERRIBLE TORTURE.
After a time the scout was removed from the post to which he had been bound, led into a wigwam, and having been fettered securely, was left to himself until the dawning of another day should afford the opportunity for torture.
So noted a hunter and scout as Beaver Tail could not be hurried out of the world. Greatéclatmust be given to the event—every one of the warriors must be notified—the torture must be of the superlative degree.
But, great was their astonishment when the sun rose again and the wigwam was found to be empty!
Numbers would have sworn that they had been constantly on the watch, and he had not gone forth—that, save the braves and the squaws, no one had been seen—that he must have vanished, even as the mist of morning before the hot sun.
Yet, even while they were discussing what could possibly have become of him, the scout was laughing in the forest, with the Indian girl, at the tumult his flight had caused.
"It was most mighty cute of you, Cloud," he said, "ter think of such a thing, and none but a smart woman like you could have posserbly carried it out, without bein' found out."
"I feared," she replied, looking up lovingly into his face, "that even after I had thrown the blankets and dresses into the wigwam, as Little Raven and I were walking along, that you would not be able to get your hands loose, and then all would have been useless."
"It was hard, that am er fact. But I l'arned somethin' of ther doctor, and as yer war smart enuff ter throw in er knife too, I managed ter git ther blade between my teeth and use it like er saw until ther confounded thongs parted. But sich er time as I had gittin' ther things on! And though I didn't see my way clear by a long shot, I couldn't help laffin' ter think how like ther Old Scratch I would look in yer woman's toggery. But I had ter wait er long time berfore I dared venture out."
"The heart of Burning Cloud beat more swiftly than it had ever done before, and she trembled like the leaves of the poplar in the winds of winter."
"Yet somebody helped me, or I would have stuck fast, and more'n likely bin a-roastin' by this time. Did yer have er hand in that ar' fracas?"
"I told Little Raven and my brother," she answered, with a smile, "to go to the other side of the village and manage some way to draw the warriors there while I gathered a crowd of young squaws for you to mingle with and pass out of sight."
"And they did it most effectually! I never heard sich a screamin' and yellin' and dorg-fightin' in all my born days, so I jest peeped out ter see what ther row was, and findin' ther coast cl'ar, ventered."
"And soon was in a place of safety?"
"Yes, and more'n that, did er leetle matter of business arter you had gone."
"What was that?" she questioned, curiously.
"Ther old Medercine will find out when he goes wanderin' inter his devil's den ergin."
"Have you been to the secret cave of the Medicine?" she asked, trembling with fear as she heard his answer, and looking upon him with intense admiration as the bravest of the brave.
"I was thar. But I don't think I shall ever have any occasion ter go ergin."
"What did you see?"
"I'll tell yer some time when we ain't got quite so much on hand—some time when every thin' is peace and plenty around us and we've got nothing to do but to talk and make love," and he gave her a sample in advance.
"And now?" she questioned, as she released herself with some difficulty from his over-warm embrace, even though pleased with it.
"Wal, ther plan we have talked about seems ter be ther best, and I reckon we had better cling ter it."
"Then the Burning Cloud will go."
"It am about time."
Released, after another shower of kisses, the Indian girl stole back again into the village and mingled with the crowd that surrounded the Medicine. He was very much engaged in attempting to explain what he knew nothing about, and was boldly asserting that the Evil Spirit had carried off the scout bodily—that he had vanished like smoke and would never be seen again, when a muffled form forced its way to where he was standing, and, throwing aside the blanket that enfolded him, the missing prisoner stood revealed, and said with a half-smile:
"I don't think ther Old Scratch has got hold on me yet, whatever he may do some of these days."
The appearance of the Evil One, with hoofs, horns, claws and brimstone-breath, could scarcely have produced a more decided impression. The warriors started back in terror, the squaws fled shrieking—the Medicine stood aghast, and had the scout been so minded he could have gone whichever way he willed without any one daring to molest him. But such was not his purpose. The part he was to play had been well thought of, and, after giving them time to become somewhat convinced that he was not a ghost escaped from the graveyard, he continued:
"Warriors of ther Sioux, thar's er good many of yer who have known me fer years and yer have always found my trail er honest and er open one. We have bin friends and I mean that we shall be so ergin. Ef I had been er mind I could have got whar yer never could have found me and it would have been mighty dangerous fer yer ter come."
"Beaver Tail is cunning upon the trail and brave on the war-path," replied the chief, obliged to say something.
"Wal, I don't make no boast of fightin'—it hain't my trade. But I won my name fairly in trappin' beaver, and yer know they are a cunnin' varmint."
"The skins he has taken are countless as the stars."
"Not quite so many as that. But I didn't come back to brag. Yer see, I trusted ye, and knew we would be friends ergin, when yer got ther black scales from before yer eyes, an' stood in ther sunshine, an' could see things as they am. So I came back with naked hands. S'arch me, ef yer have er mind ter, an' yer won't find a weepon of any kind, not even so much as ther leetlest knife, erbout me."
"Whatever trail his moccasins may have traveled, his tongue is journeying that of truth."
"Yer kin bet every buffler-robe yer 've got on that, and win."
"Beaver Tail is wise. But he did not come back into the wigwams of the Sioux to tell them this?"
"Not a bit on it. But I had ter go through with what the law-makers of my people call ther preramble fust. What I come back fer war ter whisper in yer ears that yer have bin nussin' a pesky, p'ison sarpint in yer bosom, an' it am a-gittin' ready ter sting yer ter the heart—all on yer."
There was a great commotion, and every one pressed still nearer to catch his words, entirely forgetting their recent fears, while the confused old Medicine muttered mysteriously:
"I knew there was some great danger coming, from the black circles around the moon, and the rattling of the bones of the dead in their coffins."
"Wal, ef yer did, yer took good keer ter keep it ter yerself, old fuss and snake-skins and feathers."
"Let Beaver Tail go on," commanded the chief.
"And I'll make short work on it, too. The pale-face whom yer trusted an' treated as a brother, are the blackest kind of a traitor."
"Ugh!"
"He has bin stealin' away, an' has got a great lot of warriors hidden within a few miles, and they intend ter come an' butcher ye all—men an' wimin an' children—jist on ercount of his lies."
"How do you know this?"
"Wal, I found it out; an' ter show I war yer friend, I scouted around and found whar they am encamped, and got ther best of ther white-skinned devil, and have him jist as safe as yer ever did a wolf in a trap loaded with stones."
"Where is he?"
"That hain't the question now. In the fust place, yer must know that I speak the truth. Thar's the brave Young Bear, an' Burning Cloud, an' the Leetle Raven, as yer call them. See if all on them don't say the same thing."
"Beaver Tail speaks well."
"And ther truth."
The three whom he had designated came forward and gave their testimony, and then Young Bear told of having trailed the party, who were hidden in the forest awaiting the signal of the renegade, Parsons, and that there was quite a force and well armed.
"Thar!" exclaimed the scout, triumphantly; "hain't it jist as I said?"
"Beaver Tail is our brother!" answered a hundred voices.
"An' likely to be more so than yer knows on," with a sly wink at Burning Cloud.
"Where is the traitor? Let our brother tell, that we may put him to the torture, and then go and drive our enemies before us as the wolves do the deer."
"Now, yer jist hain't a-goin' ter do any thin' of the kind! Yer kin have the traitor fer torture, an' welcome, fer I never saw any one that more desarved it. But, yer hain't a-goin' ter fight the rest. I'll go an' explain it all, an' send them about thar business. Will yer agree ter that?"
"There would be many scalps," mused the chief.
"An' yer'd be likely ter lose yer own, an' have the hull tribe wiped clean out of the 'arth."
A brief discussion followed, and a faithful promise having been given that no one of white skin should be molested but Parsons, the scout gave a signal to the brother of the Burning Cloud, who, with another brave, instantly disappeared. They soon returned, dragging along the renegade, and the shout that then rent the heavens could have been heard for miles.
"Now," said the scout, "yer can't expect me ter take er hand in yer punishment. It wouldn't be nateral fer me ter do so. But ef I had my way I'd whip him like er dorg."
It was an entirely new idea to the Indians, and immediately seized upon. Despite his struggles and his pleadings, the renegade was dragged to the post of torture—his garments cut away to his waist and his naked back exposed. Then a dozen hands brought tough sprouts of the hickory, and applied them with all the strength of their muscular arms.
The scout took advantage of the excitement attending the torture to make a visit to the physician, whom he found among the happiest of mortals. Fearing that something might still happen to him and his beautiful Olive, the old scout secured the Young Bear and Little Raven as guides and protectors, and saw them fairly started to join the party waiting for the renegade.
"Yer kin tell them better nor I could," said the honest-hearted fellow, "all erbout it."
"And you?" asked the physician.
"Wal, I've got ter stay and see the ther thing out."
"And then?"
"Why," blushing like a school-boy detected in stealing his first kiss, "I'll have ter talk with ther Burning Cloud er leetle erbout that. She hain't got so fair er skin as yer wife that am ter be, doctor, but her heart am jest as white."
"I don't doubt it in the least."
"Ther fact am we perpose ter travel in double harness ther rest on our lives and stick up er wigwam somewhar, though I can't tell jest yet whar it will be."
"She is a good and brave girl."
"Yes, all of that, and ther Little Raven am ernuther. It hain't often yer kin findsichsquaws. But, yer mustn't stand heah er talkin'. Git ter ther camp of ther white folks as soon as ever yer kin."
"But, we shall certainly see you again?"
"More'n likely. Yes, we—that am ther Cloud and me—will strike yer trail berfore long, and prehaps keep on with yer till ther end. I've quite er notion ter gi'n up this 'er' jerrymanderin' life and settle down, and I reckon diggin' gold will suit me as well as any thin' else, 'specially as it am in er country whar I kin hunt when I have er mind ter."
He wrung both their hands, went with them as far as possible upon the trail, and then returned to talk to his dusky love about their future. But as the shadows lengthened he was again attracted to the prisoner, and saw that the torture had been renewed.
He was standing tied to the fire-blackened post, evidently more dead than alive. Almost entirely stripped of his clothing there was not a spot to be found that did not bear the marks of arrow, hatchet, knife or whip, and the blood that had oozed forth had congealed and gave him the most ghastly appearance that could be imagined. His hair and whiskers were clotted and his face streaked with gore, and between the crimson lines was white as chalk, while the working of the muscles—twitching constantly with pain—made the strong-hearted scout shudder and grow faint even to gaze upon.
Night passed, and with every mark of the horrid torture removed, the village rung with notes of joy. It had become known that the white man wished to be adopted into the tribe—that he was to take the Burning Cloud for a wife and that he had already notified the chief to that effect.
Great, consequently, were the preparations, especially as the Young Bear and Little Raven would be married at the same time, and the simple ceremony having been performed, the entire tribe feasted—and made gluttons of themselves.
Then the newly married couples stole away to pass their honeymoon alone. Such a thing was common, and nothing was thought of it. But though one returned after the lapse of a few days, of the other nothing was ever seen, and the scout and his bride became only a remembrance among the Sioux.
CHAPTER XVII.
AFTER THE CLOUDS—THE SUN!
The party to which the renegade Parsons had applied for assistance waited a long time for his coming and were about to give him up, when they were surprised by the appearance of the doctor and the beautiful Olive; and when all had been explained they waxed most exceedingly wroth and determined to leave the traitor to his fate.
In that they were wise.
Notwithstanding all the promises given to the scout, they had numerous spies out, and upon the first symptom of retaliation they would have ambushed, and cut to pieces the entire party—so little faith is there to be put in the word of the generality of Indians.
That the renegade would be punished far more effectually than they would have had the heart to carry out they did not doubt, and leaving him to his fate they returned to the waiting wagons, resumed the journey that had been interrupted, and pressed forward to make up for the precious time that had been lost.
It was almost as heaven for the doctor and Olive to be together again and in safety, and each had so much to tell that the long summer days were far too short. The sufferings through which they had passed made their love doubly dear, and they longed for the time when they could be joined in marriage.
That, however, was denied them until some settlement could be reached. But while thinking thus of their own happiness they never failed to remember the scout and Burning Cloud with tears of gratitude, and as the days lengthened out into a week, they wondered very much what had become of them.
One night their suspense was unexpectedly relieved. The couple were found waiting for the train on the banks of a river, and thenceforward the scout resumed his old position of guide, and as they were gathered around the little camp-fire he filled in the outlines of the story that the doctor had merely sketched.
When the first frontier fort was reached there was a double wedding, and though Olive shone in all her wondrous beauty yet the dusky child of the forest almost rivaled her in her semi-savage charms. This proceeding the scout, though more from bashfulness than for any other reason, had somewhat opposed.
"We have been married once," he said, "and ther Cloud am satisfied and so am I."
"It was a heathen ceremony," suggested Olive, who, womanlike, had her peculiar notions of what constituted the fitness of such things.
"Wal, it mought be, but thar hain't no priest nor prayer-book that kin bind us any tighter than we now am, nor make us any more true."
"That may be. But remember you come of a Christian people, and must educate your wife."
"When I hain't got no edercation myself!" he laughed.
Nevertheless he consented after having a talk with the Indian girl, and finding it was her wish to be married by the "Medicine of the Manitou of the pale-faces," and so it was done.
"And speakin' of the Medicine," the scout said, a few days afterward, when they were talking over the subject, "reminds me of ther old one of ther Sioux."
"What has become of him?" questioned the doctor. "I owe him a deep debt of vengeance, but I fear it will never be paid."
"Ef it hain't by this time I am very much mistaken."
"You did not kill him?"
"Not exactly, but I reckon it resulted in ther same thing."
"I do not understand how that can be."
"Wal, I'll tell yer, and that puts me in mind that I promised you, Cloud, ter do so some day. Don't yer remember what I said erbout er leetle business?"
"She never forgets what her brave tells," was the truthful and characteristic answer of the Indian woman, who looked up to her husband as no one of purely white skin would ever have done.
"Fust I must give yer er description of what kind of er den the old Satan kept."
He proceeded at length to do so, and then described how he had removed the ash and untied the animals so that both they and the terrible serpents could have full play.
"He must have met a fearful death," replied the physician, with a shudder.
"Thar hain't no doubt on that. Ef he chanced to miss ther sarpints—which I don't think he could—thar b'ar and ther wildcat must have gone fer him savagely and chawed him up in erbout no time."
"But his death was as nothing compared to that of the wretched white man."
"No, heaven keep us all from sich er one!"
The journey was finished without accident, and a few years later both the doctor and the scout had made themselves comfortable—one by practice and the other by patient industry and hunting. But never have they—never will they forget the terrible scenes through which they passed, and their children hear the story told with shudders. What then must have been the reality?
THE END.
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