“Sure as death, thar comes Wavin’ Plume and Jack Howell. I thought they’d be makin’ in this direction ’fore long,” murmured Ned, to his friends, who were engaged in scrutinizing the strangers.
“They’re welcome as fair weather! The more the merrier; and if a few more on us turns up we kin jist walk off the Major without sayin’ ‘by yer leave.’”
Ten minutes more brought Night Hawk and his friend into the centre of the little circle, which stood waiting to receive them. A hearty welcome greeted them, and then one of the men asked:
“How did you come to follow us here? You must have made a straight shot to make such a centre hit.”
“I cannot say that it was through my own peculiar sagacity,” said Waving Plume. “A ghost, spectre, wizzard, or something of that kind, but looking, however, like an Indian, stumbled upon us while we were roving about last night, and ordered us to be at the Great Crossing before nightfall of to-day. Knowing no other place of that name, my friend and I journeyed in this direction, and here we are.”
Almost at the same instant, Waving Plume’s eye rested on the same object.
“Here they come,” whispered he. “Is it friend or foe, Ned?”
“Could hardly tell at this distance. Might be mistaken, as the half-breed might be comin’ with twenty or thirty of the Crows. Rather of opinion, though, that it’s Blackfeet; if so, get ready your shootin’-irons, an’ loosen yer knives. We’ll have one pelt at ’em, anyhow.”
Five minutes more and the train were within a few hundred yards of the river—there could be no doubt but that they were the anxiously expected enemy. The moon had not yet risen, but by the starlight their numbers could be easily counted, and it was observed that there were two persons with them, who were evidently white—a man and a woman. It was with difficulty that the cheers, which rose to the lips of the men on recognizing the Major, could be repressed.
“It will never do to attack them before they have crossed,” said Hugh Robison. “If we do, the chances are that they run without firing a shot, and if they do, good care will be taken that the prisoners are not left behind.”
“That’s so, Hugh,” replied Hawkins. “Just wait till they hev crossed over, and are mountin’ the bank—then pick your marks, and let drive. Be careful you don’t hit the prisoners, though, and sallyin’ out on the red varmints, kinder take ’em by surprise. We may ride through without trouble, and then agin we mayn’t. But you ain’t the boys to be scared at the prospects of gettin’ a few hard knocks in a scrimmage, and remember, you’re fightin’ to rescue yer best friends.”
This was the speech of the Captain to his army, and its effects was as great as though he had harangued them for an hour; the men looked at their weapons, and then to the leader of the Indian file, who had ridden his horse into the river.
Several minutes passed of intense interest to those ambushed, until the last of the horsemen reached the river bank, and began its ascent. It had been conjectured that the party might stop, for a while, at least, at this spot, but they gave no indications of any such purpose.
With a low-whispered “fire!” Ned Hawkins raised his rifle to his shoulder—the six followed his motion—then came a single, loud, clear-ringing crack, and three of the Indians were seen to drop from their saddles, while two or three others swayed violently in their seats.
The Indian who had been specially appointed to guard Adele had fallen from his seat, struck dead by a chance shot, and the half-fainting girl, though unconstrained, unconsciously clung tightly to the saddle, totally disregarding the cry of Waving Plume to throw herself off.
One of the prisoners was rescued—the other was not. The trappers’ work was but half done. Ten Indians lay dead on the plain, and a number of those who escaped had received serious wounds, while none of the whites had been killed. Bill Stevens had received a severe cut on the shoulder, and a blow on the head, but neither wound was mortal; and, though the rest had not all passed through the affray unscathed, yet they were as fit for fighting as when they first entered into the conflict.
The cords which bound the limbs of Major Robison were speedily cut, and his first exclamation, upon being loosed, was:
“My daughter!”
“She is still a captive,” was the response of Hawkins; “but we will rescue her to-night or die!”
Vain promises those, which are easier made than kept. When hot the iron, then strike, nor wait a moment. Cool heads will sometimes err, and rashness belongs to all. Thinking their object had been accomplished, the Indians had been pursued by the trappers, and now neither the men nor the horses were in a fit condition to follow, even though but a few seconds had elapsed. Bill Stevens was almost fainting from his wound, so that he was in no condition for a ride, while the left arm of Biting Fox hung powerless by his side.
“Where is Waving Plume?” asked Howell, casting his eye over those who stood around him.
This question was not to be easily answered, for that person was nowhere to be seen.
“He must hev followed ’em,” replied some one; and this was all that could be said of him.
Lost in the distance, a single man among a score, he had followed the Blackfeet, determined to rescue the Major’s daughter or die. Thinking of this put new iron into the strong arms of the trappers; the determination that the consultors came to can be guessed. Pursuit, stern—not ceasing till the aim was accomplished even though it led them into their very villages.
Bill Stevens, much against his wishes, was left behind, and Major Robison was to take his rifle, as he was unarmed; it would be of no use to Stevens—it was a weapon to be depended upon—and one of the guns of a fallen foe would serve all the purposes for which the wounded trapper would wish to use it.
When, at the expiration of ten minutes, the little band rode away in quest of Tom Rutter and his savage auxiliaries, it was with a cheer, and a firm knitting of the muscles of the brow, which told of stern resolution and untiring determination. Though the light was but uncertain, yet, so broad and deep was the trail that it was easily to be followed, and the seven kept on at the best rate of speed that could be got out of their horses.
Seconds glided into minutes, minutes lengthened into hours, the moon rode high up in the heavens, and the night trod hard upon the heels of day, but still there came no sight of the fugitives.
CHAPTER IV.
IMPRISONED IN THE FREE TRAPPERS’ PASS.
Tom Rutter was well acquainted with every inch of the country over which he had determined to travel. He was now striking for a spot which he judged to be most suitable for him under the present circumstances, and which he also, with some reason, judged to be a sure retreat, for the time, at least. Though perhaps it would have been his best policy to have moved on immediately to the regular hunting-grounds of the tribe, yet, for several reasons, did he prefer to linger in this vicinity. The detachment which had separated from him, and which was to form a junction at the river, had not yet made its appearance, and until it did he did not feel justified in leaving. He was not afraid of immediate pursuit by the trappers, and would much prefer letting some of the Blackfeet braves arrive at their village before him. Then it would be apparent that he was a deserted rather than a deserter, one who, encumbered as he was by a prisoner, nevertheless remained behind till the last shot was fired. Therefore it was that he turned the horses’ heads toward the mountains, appearing to Adele as though he were determined to ride, at a racing speed, straight up their rugged sides.
Gradually an opening became evident—a rough, seldom-travelled, and almost impracticable pass—apparently extending through into the Oregonian territory, on the other side.
Man and beast being so well acquainted with the route, the rate of speed was scarcely diminished. On either side towered the mountain, the almost perpendicular walls covered with draperies of green at the top, where the moonlight fell; but lower down, dark and chill. Eyesight could be of little avail here, without a thorough knowledge of the place and its surroundings.
And still, as Rutter clattered on, an answering noise from behind, as it were an echo, showed that the pursuer held his own. A dark smile swept over the blood-smeared face of the renegade, as he listened to the noise.
“Come on, come on, close behind. Ye come fast, but it may be a long time afore ye take the back trail at sich a rate. Them as comes in at Free Trappers’ Pass sometimes gits passed out. We’re safe here; but that’s more than him behind kin say.”
In order to prevent Adele from leaping down, and endeavouring to escape in darkness, Tom changed his position so that she could not make the attempt at dismounting without leaping straight into his arms. There was little necessity for this movement. Had it been light he could have seen that no such thought entered the brain of the young captive. She only clung tightly in her seat, and, in breathless suspense, awaited the end.
For half-a-mile, at least, the two horses plunged on through the dimness, and then, at a slight touch on the bridles, they turned to one side, and began ascending an inclined plain, which led along the wall of the pass.
“Steady, gal,” said Tom, in a coarse, thick whisper. “Be keerful how yer move now, for two feet out of the road might break that purty neck o’ yours. A stumble over these rocks is an ugly thing, and Tom Rutter’s work would all go for nothin’ if you got it.”
For a second the idea of self-destruction flashed through Adele’s mind. What so easy as to fling herself away over the rocks, and at once put an end to her troubles, and to life itself? Friendless and alone, in the power of an outlawed desperado, with but little hope of succour, why should she longer live?
It was but for a second. Far behind, from the darkness, echoed the sound of a horse’s hoof striking against a stone—she was not entirely deserted—friends yet sought her; rescue might be near at hand. Why, then, despond? The steeds ceased their upward motion. For the present their journey was at an end.
Apparently proceeding from the solid rock, a stout, squat-figured man emerged, bearing in his hand a small lantern. He glanced at the two a moment; then, in a hard, dry voice:
“So yer comin’ back to the nest once more, Tom Rutter; and you bring a purty bird along. Come in, and I’ll put the hosses away.”
“Shade that light, will yer, if yer don’t want a ball to come up here. Thar’s somebody comin’ through the pass that’s lookin’ for somethin’ he’s lost, and if he catches sight o’ that glim, there may be an extra job put out that I don’t keer about havin’ a hand in.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed the man with the lantern, as he put the slide down. “Ho, ho! somebody looking for a lost thing in Free Trappers’ Pass! There’s lots o’ them things goes in, but powerful few goes out. What’s he lost, Tom? A bit calico, or a back load o’ pelts, or a money purse? Them’s bad things to loose on the prairie or mountains, but nice to find, most mighty nice, most—”
Here his words became indistinct, for he had entered a fissure in the rocks; but something very like an oath emphasized the concluding sentence. Tom Rutter and Adele followed.
The light from the lantern, which was now permitted to stream forth, was but barely sufficient to give the captive some idea of where she was.
The air felt damp and cave-like to her, and, looking around, Adele saw, as, indeed, she expected to see, that the place was part of a cavern, of how great an extent it was impossible to say. The man who was, for the time being, porter, led the horses to one side, and then returned to where Rutter was standing.
“Come on, Tom; we have the kennel all to ourselves to-night. All the boys are out, an’ if Big Dick don’t come back, we’ll hev a nice evenin’ of it. Strike into the room, an’ tell us whar you come from, how you got that bloody face, and whar you picked up that young squaw. I ain’t seen a face for three or four days, an’ am splittin’ for somebody to talk to.”
The renegade did not appear to be in a very loquacious humour, but he followed the advice of the man insomuch that he “struck” into the room, to all appearance only too glad to find that the place was not tenanted by the usual dwellers therein.
The underground retreat was of considerable size. The room in which they all three finally occupied was at least twenty feet square; the one through which they had passed was much longer, while a curtain of skins did not entirely conceal the passage to other rooms farther on. An air of rude hospitality was visible on Tom Rutter’s face, and in his talk and actions, as he motioned Adele to a seat.
“Take a seat, gal, an’ don’t be skeered. No one is goin’ to hurt ye, and yer wants’ll be pervided for as long as this here hand kin hold a rifle. It’s only a necessary o’ war that makes me do this, an’ I’ll take care that no hurt comes to ye, though I won’t say how soon or how long you’ll stay in the camps o’ the Blackfeet; that’s somethin’ I ain’t got the say about.”
Adele sunk on the pile of skins pointed out by the renegade.
One thing only somewhat reassured her. Tom had treated her with more deference than she could by any means have expected, and, somehow, there was an air of honesty about him, when he assured her of support and protection that was almost satisfactory to her, and which caused the other man to open his eyes, as though astonished to see anything like honour in a renegade, and sometime denizen of Free Trappers’ Pass.
In his rough way, Tom intimated, if she desired it, some refreshment would be prepared; but Adele shook her head in the negative.
“I s’pose yer sleepy, then, and so just follow me, and I’ll show you whar you may turn in.”
Mechanically the girl obeyed Rutter, and followed him through the curtained aperture. A short, narrow passage led into another apartment, somewhat smaller than the one they had just left. Strange it was, yet did it seem to her that the air was too dry for an underground room, and it was almost impossible to realize that it was not part of a legitimate dwelling-house.
Placing the lamp—a rude dish containing bear’s oil—upon the lid of the chest, Tom, with a few words, intended to quiet and soothe the feelings of the unwilling guest, turned and retraced his steps, leaving Adele alone in the guest-chamber of the outlaws’ retreat.
She did not feel at all like sleeping. Her situation was not one which would be apt to act opiatewise on her nerves. Just as the waning light shot up in one last expiring gleam, then disappeared, leaving her in the dark, she heard the sound of voices coming from the front part of the cave. Without any settled reason, she rose from her seat, and groped her way to the entrance of her prison.
Light as the evening breeze touches the fallen leaves and moss carpets of the forest, her feet fell upon the cold earthen floor of the passage. A square of light marked the curtain of the ante-chamber, and here Adele paused. The sound was no longer a hum, but every word of the speakers was uttered with distinctness, so that the listener could understand the conversation fully.
Evidently there was an addition to the number, for there was a voice heard—rough, boisterous, well suited for the utterance of round, rolling oaths. Probably, this man was “Big Dick,” spoken of by the porter, as one who might possibly make his appearance before morning. This man was speaking.
“He came so almighty suddent along, and made sich a cussed noise, that I thort he war one of us, a course. To make sure, I hailed him, but he didn’t stop, only licked up his hoss, an’ come faster than ever. I knowed ef it war any of they boys, they wouldn’t be doin’ any sich tricks, so I throwed my shootin’-iron up to shoulder, and let drive whar I thort he mout be. The noise stopped most mighty suddent fur a second, and then I heard a hoss gallop away in sich a manner, as said he hadn’t any rider aback of him. It war a good shot to make in the dark.”
What answer would have been given, was interrupted by the entrance of yet another man, who immediately exclaimed:
“We’ll hev to lay low and keep dry for a few hours, my coves, for there’s more’n fifty red-skins hoverin’ ’long that way: and they ain’t comin’ very peaceably, either. They’re bound to blaze, from their looks.”
“Whar yer from, Bill?” said Big Dick, “an’ whar did ye see them red-skins? I’ve jist been a tellin’ how I wiped someone out in the pass, here, but I didn’t see anything like Injun signs.”
“I war down South Branch, somewhat on the scout; and I see lots of people goin’ about, all of ’em with lot of arms and nary plunder, but those red-skins are strikin’ fur the pass, strait, an’ from the looks of ther top-knots, I should take ’em to be Crows.”
“What the —— are Crows Injuns doin’ up here?” queried Dick.
“On the war trail, I guess.”
“Waal, there’s no ust a pickin’ a fout with ’em, and it’s a hard matter to meet with anybody, we don’t,—so we kin jist keep under kiver, an’ act cautious till they’re cleared out.”
Adele Robison listened for a short time longer, but finally determined that it was best to retire.
A heavy burden rested upon her young heart. Someone had probably been shot in the pass. That “someone” was doubtless the friend who had so closely followed on after the flight at the crossing of the Marias River.
Who was it?
Her heart grew faint, and her mind dared not suggest an answer. At last sleep came to soothe her wearied brain. It was a calm and quiet sleep, that lasted a long time. At least, so it appeared to Adele when she awoke. In the darkness she lay and wondered where she was, how long she must remain, how it would end.
Tom Rutter’s appearance, with refreshments, told her that without the cave it was daylight.
He was very silent. From anything he might say, she could glean no information as to the probable length of her stay in the cavern, and her ultimate destination after having emerged therefrom. She would have asked, concerning the movements of the Indians, whom she had overheard mentioned as approaching on the previous night, but she cared not to confess herself an eaves-dropper. Tom saved her from trouble on that score, by saying, just as he was leaving:
“Keep yer heart up for the next few days. Thar’s a consid’rable lot o’ Injuns about here, that I don’t keer about meetin’ jist now. Ef we don’t do that, we’ll hev to lay down here till they clar out, and there’s no sartainty when that’ll be.”
CHAPTER V.
MEETING OF ARCHER AND PARSONS.
We need scarcely tell the reader that the horseman at whom Dawson had fired was none other than Waving Plume. As he recklessly urged his horse along the rugged pass, he heard the hail of the outlaw, but thought not of answering it. Then suddenly and furiously did his horse turn, that before he could well understand what had happened, Archer found himself upon the ground in the midst of his whole equipage, while the animal was almost out of hearing.
Confusedly rubbing his head, he was about rising to his feet, when a hand of iron rested upon his shoulder, and a low voice whispered in his ear:
“Keep still, boy, ef yer wants ter come out o’ this place with a clean skin. Yer in a heap o’ danger.”
There was something familiar in the tone which, with the good sense of request, caused him to lie still, and await what this suddenly-introduced friend would have him to do. Silence reigned in the pass. At times he could hear the low breathing of the person by his side; once, for a few moments, he heard the noise of footsteps, as Big Dick sought the entrance of his retreat; but with these exceptions all was still. Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed ere, becoming impatient, he whispered:
“All is now quiet, what is to be done next?”
“Right, by mighty!” responded the strange friend. “I knowed it war you, Charley Archer—rather an awkward tumble o’ yourn, but no bones broke, I suppose. Keep quiet a leetle bit longer, till we kin see ef them as fired that shot is agoin’ to deny anything.”
The speaker was Jacob Parsons. So soon as Waving Plume recognized him, he felt assured, in his own mind, of the propriety of adopting his advice, so, without wasting a breath in asking him how under heavens he came to be at that spot, when he had supposed him miles away, he retained his crouching position. Of course, this could not continue for ever, though a terrible long half-hour passed before Parsons thought it safe to move. Then, in a whisper, he announced that it was time; and, cautioning Waving Plume to keep close behind, he cautiously moved away, carrying his rifle in readiness for instant use, and scarce making a breath of noise, as he flitted ghost-like through the dusky night.
After three quarters of an hour’s fatiguing march, with a low “come on,” the leader began the ascent of a most difficult path. Up, up they toiled until they reached a long level ledge of rock, and here Parsons and his companion halted. For the present their travels were at an end.
“Now,” said Archer, as he wearily threw himself at full length on the rock. “Now, Jake, can you tell me how you here, where we are, and what we are to do?”
“Yer askin’ a good deal at once, but, perhaps I kin. You know I’ve scouted around this part o’ the country for quite a time, and livin’ alongside the red-skins, I got to learn their ways. Las’ night I was nigh thirty miles away, an’ right in among ’em. Young Robison and I war on their trail, ’cause the tarnal critters has got the Major an’ his darter—which is a cussed sight worse; and that’s what I ought to told you at fust.”
“Never mind that, I know that part, though you can tell me what’s become of Hugh,” said Waving Plume.
“He’s all right—will make a bully Injun fighter, he will. They were all round him, but we fought our way through, killed a dozen—more or less, an’ then clared out. We had to separate, but he kin hold his own candle, so I ain’t a bit frightened fur him. When I started in this direction, I jist thought Tom would strike this way—”
“As so he did!” exclaimed Charley Archer, excitedly, leaping to his feet. “It was he that I followed into the pass—he carried with him Adele Robison.”
“Yes, yer correct, an’ you needn’t be alarmed, she ain’t fur off, an’ we stand a mighty good chance of taking her out of his fingers.”
“Tell me where she is, if you know; and how you expect to rescue her! It will be no easy matter, though it must be done; and I seek for light on it.”
“Easy, boy, don’t be in a splutter. There’s a cave in the rock, as I kinder hinted, and Tom Rutter has holed thar till he seed jist what to do. And now, while I’m thinkin’ on it—how in thunder does it come that he breaks in alone with ther gal, an’ you come alone following him when he had a party of thirty braves, an’ you were with half-a-dozen free trappers? All the rest on both sides ain’t wiped out, be they? I’m kinder curious on them points.”
Waving Plume gave a succinct account of his adventures in search of the Major’s daughter, together with a detailed description of the conflict at the crossing, the flight, and his lone continuance of the pursuit—of the position of Ned Hawkins, the Major, and the rest of the party he was profoundly ignorant, nor could he tell what had become of the Blackfeet.
Jake heard the account in silence, reserving his criticisms until it was ended; then he commenced:
“Waal, Tom allers war a sharp ’un to handle, and he got ahead of ’em slightually this time. He’s a turn-coat on principle, you see, and had been alivin’ among the Injuns ever since that time the black rascals fotched him up a standin’. He don’t seem to be doin’ the square thing to the Major an’ his darter, but as near as I kin come to it he’s fooled you an’ the red-skins both, an’ slipped in here—which ar a mighty bad place for an honest man or woman. Maybe you’ve heard tell o’ Free Trappers’ Pass—ef you have, this here’s the place. Now, I’m sleepy and tired, you perceive, and so will jist dry up an’ go to sleep, fur there’s plenty o’ time to-morrow to tend to all our talkin’ and sich like.”
Used as he was to the hardships of trapper life, to Jake, there was no need of a bed of down to bring sleep. In a few moments he was cosily ensconced in the arms of Morpheus, and the watchful ear of Charles Archer could hear the long-drawn breath which announced his condition.
Gradually the blackness of the surrounding night changed to a leaden grey. Mistily thoughts swarmed through his brain. Then came a blank—Archer, too, was asleep.
Even yet was his dream haunted by a golden-haired girl, who struggled in the arms of a heavily-bearded refugee and countless Indians. The fight at the crossing was to be refought, the hand-to-hand struggle with the renegade, the sudden retreat, the dark intricacies of Free Trappers’ Pass, and the hurtling rifle bullet—all once more appeared ere, with the breaking morn, he arose from his hard couch on the level rock.
With keen eye he studied the windings of the path which he had followed to reach this resting-place; and anxiously he gazed around to make himself acquainted with the topographical intricacies of his retreat. As he was looking down upon the scenery below, Parsons, who had wakened, remarked:
“It’s a queer country this, ain’t it, now?”
“Yes, Jacob, it is a queer-looking country. This is, in one sense, a safe retreat, also. It would require a more than ordinary set of men to dislodge us by force of arms; but I am afraid it would not take long to starve us out—indeed, as far as I can see, that would be the only plan that could prove successful.”
“Don’t you be too sure of that. There’s a quicker way than that, if it ain’t a better one. This wall”—patting with his hand the rocky side of the recess—“looks amazin’ thick an’ stout, but six or eight good men could have her down in short order.”
Seeing the surprise of Archer, Parsons explained as follows:
“You needn’t stare so, it’s true. If you look sharp, you’ll see this rock’s limestun—right about here you’ll find lots of it.”
Sunlight suddenly stole over the face of Waving Plume, and the joy of his soul beamed out through his keen grey eyes.
“So near,” he exclaimed, “nothing save a few inches of rock to separate us—she must and shall be saved! Quick, tell me your plans, that we may at once begin the work, for delays are dangerous!”
To this rather excited speech of Archer’s, Parsons coolly responded:
“Don’t be in too great a splutter, young man. There’s things to be thought on afore we commence to go in. We had better scout around an’ see how the country looks, an’ then lay our plans accordin’.”
Charles assenting, the two together began the descent of the path which served as a stair-case to this high eyrie.
Preferring to leave the difficult duties of scouting to one most thoroughly versed in its mysteries, Waving Plume sought out a comfortable resting-place on which he might seat himself, while Parsons disappeared in the direction of the mouth of the basin, or cul-de-sac, in which they were encamped.
Time passed on. At least two hours had elapsed, and yet the trapper did not return.
At length, tired of inactivity, and restless from a mind burdened by so great a duty as the rescue of the fair “Mist on the Mountain,” he debated with himself whether he should follow in the footsteps of Jake, and seek the plain, or return to the niche wherein he had passed the night.
Reflecting that in the one case he would be needlessly thrusting himself into danger, and at the same time drawing no nearer to Adele—while in the other he would be closer to the maiden, even if there was no possible means of access to her, he chose to retrace his step.
Out of breath, he reached the spot, and flung himself down much in the same manner as he had done on the night before. Suddenly, behind his head he felt a slight vibration of the rock, and could hear a tapping sound as though someone were, with their knuckles, trying its strength or thickness. With a bound, Waving Plume was on his feet. Circumstanced, as he was, he could not, at once, think what course it was best for him to pursue.
Following the bent of the first impulse which struck him, he drew from his belt the large hunting-knife which he there carried. For a moment he surveyed the seemingly solid wall before him, gave a glance at the edge of his weapon, and then resolutely attacked the only known barrier which lay between him and Adele.
As Waving Plume progressed with his labour, he began to realize how very thin the partition actually was. At a heavy pressure of his hand he could feel it spring inwards, and he marked well the progress that he had made. One more vigorous application of the knife, the point sank into the rock and disappeared. His work, for the time, was almost done.
A hole as big as the palm of his hand testified to the vigour of his proceedings. Anxiously gazing through this, he could see the apartment beyond. A small lamp cast an uncertain light, and almost directly before the aperture a dim shadow loomed up. The shadow was that of a woman.
“Adele!”
In a low, but audible whisper the word floated into the room. Bending down her head, she replied:
“Who is it that speaks?”
“A friend—one who would rescue you—Charles Archer.”
“Thank Heaven!”
This, much more in the shape of a fervent prayer than of a reply; then, to Waving Plume:
“If you can aid me, be quick!”
When the three had reached the valley, and were in some manner bidden by the foliage of the trees, a momentary halt was called, and a short consultation was held.
Environed by difficulties, with two companions depending upon his inventive genius for escape from a most unpleasant position, no light breaking upon the dark road which seemed to stretch out before him, Parsons did all but despair. Think as he might, no good would come of it, and so, after some minutes, he said:
“Well, Charley, it ain’t no use. We can’t git out.”
A groan was the only response, so he continued:
“But that ain’t no reason why we can’t stay in. They say, ‘what ain’t hid’s best hid,’ an’ we’ll try it. There’s plenty of room to lay by here, an’ ef we can only throw ’em off the scent a leetle, it may work. Jist come along now.”
Diving right into the thick underbrush, Parsons led the way, until they came to the side of the basin which they were in. Here, in a clump of evergreens, he placed them, and then began to retrace his footsteps, first charging them not to move until they heard from him.
As he returned to the spring, he effaced, as much as possible, the marks of the passage of himself and friend.
Stepping lightly into the open space at the spring, he looked carefully around. Nothing unusual met his eye, nor did any suspicious sound fall upon his ear.
“Strange, ther’ ain’t no sound from ’em yit,” was his muttered cogitation. “Tom Rutter must hev got most cussedly careless since he got among the Blackfeet, or he’d hev missed the girl afore this. It ain’t so likely neither; but there’ll be something’ up soon.”
While thinking thus, Jacob was adjusting the saddle of his steed. With a bound he had vaulted into his seat, but scarcely had he settled there, when, from the rocks above him, in the direction of Free Trappers’ Cave, came a wild yell.
Drawing in a long breath, he gave vent to an answering cry, so loud and clear, as even to astonish himself. A moment, horse and rider stood motionless, then, with a renewed cheer, he dashed boldly and at full speed toward the mouth of the basin and the plain.
CHAPTER VI.
CAPTURE OF JAKE PARSONS.
The yell which had come to the ears of Jake Parsons, was sounded from the lips of Tom Rutter.
“Quick! Follow them! Don’t stand here idle. Your lives depend on it.”
Such were the exclamations which Rutter gave vent to; and the man by his side gradually dispensed with the sneer on his face, as he began to understand fully how matters were.
To turn around, to leave the apartment, to call upon the two men who were in the other room, to mount their steeds and descend into the pass, all this was the work of but a few moments.
When, at length, they burst out upon the plain, the first sight that met their eye was a band of some twenty Blackfeet. It was that part of Tom Rutter’s party which had not been at the fray of the great crossing. The sudden appearance of the four would have immediately attracted their attention, had it not been otherwise engaged.
Parsons had made somewhat of a mistake in his calculations. It had been his intention to keep close to the mountains, and make a trail running southward. If he could do this, and at the same time keep out of sight of Tom Rutter and the free trappers, he might make them believe that Adele was with him, and by drawing off their attention and forces in this direction, Waving Plume and the Major’s daughter might possibly have a chance to escape. The nature of the place was favourable to the plan, and, had it not been for the Indians, it might have been successful.
Unfortunately they were half a mile closer than he expected them to be, and as he rode out through the narrow, rocky, bush-sheltered passage, he fell, as it were, right into their hands. With a loud whoop, he clapped heels to his horse’s side, and endeavoured to dodge past them, but in vain. One of those nearest to him, and who was armed with a rifle, drew sight on the luckless trapper. Without waiting to ascertain whether the fleeing man was friend or foe, he pulled the trigger and fired.
Though the ball missed its intended mark, nevertheless it took fatal effect upon the horse which Jake bestrode, and, with one prodigious leap, its vital energies were expended. Though it fell so suddenly, its rider was not to be caught unprepared. Leaping nimbly aside, he avoided being crushed, and with steady aim covered the Indian who had fired the shot. He, knowing his almost certain fate, attempted to throw himself behind his horse, but his motion was not quick enough. A sharp crack, a whistling bullet, and the steed was avenged. To turn and rush toward the cover of the woods was his next move, and, with a score of red-skins, and the four whites to spur him on, he made the tallest kind of running.
A perfect storm of bullets and arrows was launched at him, but still was he unharmed. A number of the Blackfeet dismounted, and closed in upon him; but the hardy white disdained to yield.
Drawing his heavy rifle over his shoulder, he anticipated their attack by leaping upon them. For a few moments there was a lively time among the party, but numbers and resolution were too much for resolution alone, and Jake was finally borne to the ground. Even then he did not, at once, give in, but made most frantic efforts to draw his knife. At length, after a most desperate fight, he was bound, though not without the assistance of Big Dick and Tom Rutter.
“Thar, darn yer ornary picturs, you’ve got me; but ye had a good time adoin’ it. See what yer’ll make of me, ye low-lived, red-skinned devils!”
To this exclamation of Parsons, which showed that his mind was not under control, if his body was, no immediate attention was paid, Tom Rutter, all panting with his exertions, exclaiming:
“Whar is the gal—ye?”
CHAPTER VII.
PARSONS AND ARCHER IN THE BLACKFOOT VILLAGE.
It was evening. In the centre of the Blackfoot village were two men well known to the reader—Parsons and his friend, Charles Archer. Without the lodge, could be heard the cat-like pace of a sentinel. At a few rods distance a long wigwam, the council-chamber of the Charred Stick section of the tribe, was located, and now and then a wild shriek, pealed forth by some brave, would reach the ears of the prisoners. Within, nothing was to be heard save the measured breathing of the two; both were sleeping.
The face of Waving Plume was very pale. From under a tight bandage upon his forehead, drops of blood, now clotted, had escaped; the hair on the front part of his head was matted together, and the appearance of the man gave evidence that he had not become a captive without a determined fight.
Loud and clear sounded the death-wail for fallen braves. Though successful in their foray upon the Crows, yet had the expedition, taken as a whole, resulted disastrously to the tribe. At least a dozen braves had fallen, and Talmkah, one of their bravest and boldest chiefs, dangerously, if not mortally wounded, in the abduction of Major Robison and his daughter. Thus, in the band of warriors that night gathered around the council-fire, there were deep mutterings, ominous frowns, sharp, blood-red speeches, and actions which told as loud as words, that the fate of the prisoners would be one both sudden and bloody.
The two slept on. Days of toil and nights of waking had so far exhausted them, that, even with the prospect of soon-approaching death, impending over them, they would calmly woo “tired nature’s sweet restorer,” and quietly and unbrokenly slumber, while bound, and prisoners in the Blackfoot town. They had slumbered perhaps an hour or so, when the entrance of three men into the hut aroused them. Two were Indians, but, by the light of the torch which one of them carried, to them, suddenly awakening, the third seemed to be a white man. Then, as the fumes of sleep rolled off, Charles Archer recognized one whom, of all others, he less wished to meet—Robison himself.
The Major, a weary, soul-depressed look upon his face, looked around, finally suffering his eye to rest for some seconds upon his fellow-prisoners before recognizing them. Then, as the Indians retired, leaving the three to themselves, he found tongue, addressing them with:
“So we once more meet. For once I am more pained than delighted at seeing a familiar face.”
“I can most heartily say the same,” was Archer’s response.
“Though the explanation of the fact of my being a prisoner here is most easy, I can hardly imagine how you came to fall into the hands of the Blackfeet again, once having been rescued, as I know, by our band of trappers. It can hardly be possible that they, along with you, are sharing the pains of captivity.”
“As far as my knowledge extends, they are in perfect safety. I find myself here as much through my own foolishness as through any other reason; yet, knowing, as I do, that I must have been imprudent, I can scarce give a sufficient account as to the means by which I was captured. Excitement, fatigue, grief, darkness and delay must have driven me partially out of my senses, so that I fell into the hands of the very men who were lurking along our trail.”
“It is strange,” said Waving Plume, “how misfortune seems to dog our every step. Not a move can we make, however fair it may, at the inception, appear, but we are plunged deeper into the mine of difficulties. You, the very embodiment of all caution, just at the critical time, losing presence of mind, seems to be sufficient cause to think that the fates are against us.”
And Parsons, too, had a word to say:
“By mighty, Major, things hes a villainy look. I’m expectin’ nothin’ ’cept the hull darned caboodle on us’ll jist be packed in here afore mornin’, an’ tomorrer they’ll make a bonfire out o’ some seven or eight most cussedly interestin’ subjects, of our weight an’ thickness. What the deuce are we goin’ to do?”
“We must hope for the best, knowing that while there is life there is hope. I have very little fears, for the present, for Hawkins and the rest of the boys, though I deeply regret that circumstances should have occurred to draw them toward so much danger. They are well-chosen men, with years of experience, and, though game to the back bone, there will be a method about their perseverance which will, as far as possible, preserve them from needless exposure to danger.”
CHAPTER VIII.
WAVING PLUME AT LIBERTY.
The night wore on. The sighing winds crept slowly around the wigwam, or sorrowfully wailed up the streets of the Blackfoot village. The dim, ghostly circle around the moon deepened into blackness; dim clouds grew in size, looming forebodingly, and a chill, damp feeling filled the air. Without the wigwam, which served as a prison for Major Robison and his friends, three dusky warrior sentinels stalked, their arms well secured under the folds of their close wrapped blankets. Silence came, like cotton-down, upon the surrounding village, and all was quiet.
From within came no sound indicative of aught of life; but by the light of the low-burned, smouldering brand, three persons held a whispered conversation. It was Waving Plume who first spoke out, and asked his companions to make, at least, one more desperate attempt to escape. It was Waving Plume who first spoke of what all three had before been thinking.
“Time hurries on, Major, and the hour of midnight must be well past. To remain here is certain death, and that, too, without having the consolation of knowing that thereby we are in the least benefitting your daughter. Darkness, without, appears to be thick, and guards slacking in their vigilance—what say you, then, to a desperate try for life and liberty?”
“No need to ask me that question, Archer. I have that to nerve me for the struggle which may come; and much of all one loves, hangs trembling in the balance. Here are we, with unbound hands, our lives, and the lives of our friends at stake—the chance of success, to one of us, at least, tolerable—why then should we delay. Let us hasten to leave.”
The step of the sentinels without had ceased. A low murmur of conversation came in from the corner opposite to the door. The men without had seen Jake Parsons and Archer most thoroughly bound, and they had not the slightest suspicion but what Major Robison was in the same predicament. A thought of bad faith from Tom Rutter never crossed their minds. With such subjects as might beguile their savage minds, they kept up their conversation, leaving the tight binding withes which had entwined the wrists of their captives, and the chance of fortune to take care of the prisoners. Thus, in silence, and with lips somewhat quivering, and hearts almost silenced in their beating, the three stole out, all unarmed, save the heavy hunting-knife which Waving Plume carried in his bosom.
Robison and Parsons crept along side by side; but Charles Archer followed some half dozen paces in the rear, covering the retreat, and occupying, as he thought, the post of danger.
A faint sound of pattering feet, following close behind, saluted the ear of Waving Plume, so that, with knife drawn, and in a crouching position, he awaited the nearer approach of the object. It proved to be something which is but rarely met with—a really courageous Indian dog. With only a single bark, with only a low, deep growl, he sprang straight at the neck of Archer.
He, however, on his guard, threw up his left arm to ward off the attack, at the same time striking a powerful blow at the side of the animal. It proved a fatal one, for, with a sound, the mere repetition of his growl, he fell lifeless to the ground; while our hero, withdrawing his steel, turned to follow in the track of his still advancing friends. They, not perceiving that he had stopped, silently continued their journey, leaving their rear guard to stand with his reeking knife firmly clasped in his hand, perplexedly listening in the endeavour to guess the direction taken by his companions.
In five minutes Archer had extricated himself from the village, had traversed a distance of a hundred yards due west, and had then, with a Westerner’s instincts, turned and struck a course almost due south. To the south were friends: to the south help, freedom. But, if to the south lay safety, so, to the south lay danger. Outlying pickets returning bands of warriors, a tangled path—these, and darkness were before him. But death howled behind him, and forward, forward through the night, he pressed.
Hastening on, his teeth firm set, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness, his hand tightly clenching his hunting-knife, there came suddenly to his ears the sound of a rapidly approaching horseman. Not far distant was he, either, and though the danger of halting was almost commensurate with that of proceeding, still he thought it best to halt, and, if possible, escape the notice of the coming foe. For not one moment could he suppose that any but a foe might ride so recklessly in such close proximity to the Indian town.
Halting, then, he threw himself at full length upon the ground, hoping that good fortune and the darkness of the night might once again befriend him. At three yards distance he was invisible; it would be a keen-scented man, indeed, who might detect his presence.
The steed came nearer, the soft ground and tangled prairie grass, deadening the sounds of his approach.
Onward, and still onward the red-man swept.
Suddenly, from the very ground at his feet, arose a form, shadowy and spectral, reaching one arm toward the head of his steed, the other brandished back. Startled, his self-possession most sternly attacked, almost stunned by this ghostly apparition, his hand bore hard on the leathern thong of his bridle, and a twitch of the wrist, tried to turn the horse to one side. But, though the nerves of the rider were steel, not so with the animal he bestrode; and, though coming to a halt so suddenly as to be thrown back upon its haunches, farther than that he refused to do. So, as the hand of the warrior felt for the ready tomahawk, the phantom form gave a bound forward, the next moment, with a sweeping, hissing sound, the knife of Archer went hilt-home to the heart of the red-man.
Possessed, then, of steed and fire-arm, with foes behind and friends before, careless—reckless—of pursuers and pickets, straightforward through the gloom, dashed the escaped prisoner.
Somewhat tired was the steed, but the clouds rifted, the wailing winds sighed more softly, the moon again beamed out bright; and as hours sped on, and were thrown backward by the flying hoofs, the bright auroras tinged the eastern clouds, and John Howell, from his look-out by the foot of a thickly wooded hill, keeping sharp guard while his companions slept, caught glimpse of a strange figure, mounted on a foam flecked and weary steed, bearing down full and hard upon him. So, too, with Antonio, the half-breed, who, with the Crows following in his footsteps, had pushed on, and had, on the previous day, overtaken the trappers. He and Howell, together watching, descried the unknown figure, and, at first were somewhat ruffled in their minds, but at length, with a joyous clap of the hand upon his thigh, Howell shouted:
“Waving Plume, by mighty!”
CHAPTER IX.
ATTACK ON THE BLACKFOOT VILLAGE—RESCUE OF THE PRISONERS.
Somewhat cleared was the weather, and morning dawned with a great red flame in the east.
Waving Plume, had, after a few minutes of rest, asked the other trappers their opinion as to what had best be done. There followed, then, somewhat of a difference of opinion; some being for immediate action, some for a night attack, while one or two others thought it would be best to approach to the very outskirts of the town, during that night, and then, when day had fairly dawned, to rush in. These being so much in the minority, with that stubbornness so common to mankind, held their opinions so stoutly, that they won over to their side, first one and then another of their opposers, until, of the white men, Waving Plume was the only man apparently unconvinced.
But to him, there arose some strange fear; and doubting whether his comrades were not making a mistake, he proposed that Antonio, who had hitherto held his peace with most masterly reticence, should give his views on the subject. The half-breed accordingly expressed his opinions.
Some shook their heads thoughtfully, some considered long, yet, finally all admitted the force of Antonio’s argument, and as their hasty morning meal was eaten, and the sun well up, it appeared, if they intend to go on at all, that it was time to start.
With caution, they skirted the hills, keeping well in the shade of the friendly cotton-wood, for the most part following the course of a little stream of water, which, almost dry a week ago, was now nearly a river, in silence the little army advanced.
At length, to the advanced guard, Antonio, Biting Fox, and a Crow brave, the wished-for spot came into sight.
When the main body came up, it was halted, while the three went forward to thoroughly reconnoiter the woods. A strong party had been there that morning, gathering wood, and it took no prophet to tell what that was for.
Silence reigned here now; the woods were empty—evidently all the supplies needed had been obtained, and it was little likely that an invading footstep from the village would then be met with during the remainder of the day. Two of them remained to watch, while the third, the Crow brave, was sent back to state what had been seen, and to bring up the rest.
Once more Antonio offered to attempt an unseen approach to the enemy, to find out their position and employment; and though now the endeavour was one of more difficulty than when he undertook it under cover of darkness, at the camp of the hollow log, yet, with the same self-reliance he proceeded on his way.
Through an opening in the wigwam, he caught sight of the clear space in front of the council-chamber. He saw, too, a crowd there—the old and young, men, women, and children loudly shouting, while from their prison-house was led the two white men—Major Robison and Parsons.
Instantly all doubts were, in his mind, resolved; the time for the sacrifice had arrived, and prompt and decisive action was necessary.
When he was once more in their midst, it did not take long for him to explain the commotion in the village, or to give them a full understanding of its cause.
“To horse!” shouted Waving Plume, in a whisper.
“To horse and forward. No time to lose now in idle calculation. We have already weighed the cost of this our undertaking. There is no one here, I take it, who could hang behind; so forward,” and, like an arrow of death, the whole body swept on into the narrow street.
The surprise was complete; Waving Plume and his followers came fiercely, charging home upon them.
Though in the attack the Crows under Antonio confined their attention exclusively to the extermination of their foes, the whites, after the first fire, were content to bend their energies more to the effecting of that for which the expedition, by them, at least, was more particularly undertaken—the rescue of the three prisoners. While Antonio and his men swept on past the stake without heeding what was there transpiring, Waving Plume and his friends there halted.
And it was well they did so. A large Indian, the master of the ceremonies, a great brave, and, as one might say, the chief executioner of that section of the tribe, stood, with hatchet upraised, just as Charles Archer rushed to the rescue. To send a pistol-ball through his brain was the work of but an instant, then, as the great corpse settled, with a noiseless quiver, to the ground, half a dozen hands dashed aside the already burning faggots, and cut the tight-binding cords which encircled the limbs of the captives.
Parsons gave a whoop as he felt the blood once more freely circling through his veins, and the prospect of sudden and horrible death no longer so unwinkingly staring him in the face; but the Major grasped his son’s hand in silence, then turned with anxious eye toward a group of women and children who were ranged in front of the council-house.
“Adele,” said he, stretching out his hand; “is she there?”
But Waving Plume’s quick eye had already pierced to where Adele, pale and thoughtful, sat between two squaws, and, followed by Ned Hawkins and Howell, was, in a moment, by her side. She, throwing herself forward, stood leaning with her arms resting upon the pommel of his saddle; the next minute the strong arms of Archer had lifted her into place in front of him; a moment more, and she was in the arms of her father.
To the trappers, now that their mission had been accomplished, but little remained to do. The present state of affairs gave little promise of any severe fighting, and with no distinct desire for revenge burning in their bosoms, they neither wished to engage in nor to behold an indiscriminable slaughter, or the more disgusting operation of scalping the dead.
Ned Hawkins now mentioned the place where they had spent the previous night, and was agreed upon to proceed to that spot, and there, for awhile, remain. Meanwhile, conversation in the little party was brisk. All had something to say, and tongues ran fast, though none ran faster than that of the hero of our story, Waving Plume. What all he repeated in a low tone to Adele, we do not intend here to rehearse; but that it was something interesting, from the way smiles and blushes chased each other over her face, we do not doubt.
CHAPTER X.
THE REALIZATION OF THE DREAM.
We have followed Major Robison and his daughter through some of the stormy scenes in their history, and now are fast approaching the completion of our work.
Though the story told to him by the renegade, on the night when he was urging escape, had much of probability in it, yet, from having had his hopes so often dashed, he feared to place too much confidence in it, or to allow too high expectations to be raised in his breast. For all that, he felt a lingering belief that now, perhaps, his wishes would be realized, and a stern determination to test, to the fullest extent, the truth of the revelation. Then, with Waving Plume and Stevens, and the rest of the trappers, he would journey in search of the since much quoted Pike’s Peak.
A journey of a week and they were safely at the fort; a stay of another week, and then Robison and Archer were travelling back to the hunting-ground of the Crows, there to meet with the remainder of the formidable little band of voyageurs, who were to accompany them on their exploring tour.
Days and weeks passed before Adele and her brother, in safe-keeping at the fort, heard from the wanderers. Then, alone, with his arm in a sling, and a deep arrow wound in his back, came Howell. He brought good intelligence, though. The rest of the party were safe, and in good spirits—more, they were successful.
Having brought this intelligence, and having remained a week or so to recruit from the effects of his wounds and the fatigues of a long journey, Howell again mounted his horse, slung on his rifle, looked well to his canteen and provision bag, and turned westward again, leaving Hugh and his sister to watch and hope.
Summer faded away, autumn came, and November’s winds were fiercely humming over the plain, when the next intelligence of the absentees was received. One evening, as the sun was dropping behind the far-off mountains, a single horseman was seen approaching, along the westerly trail, to the fort. Hugh and Adele, by chance looking out, saw him coming, and both, at the same time, recognized him. A few moments later and he was clasping their hands, responding to their eager enquiries concerning the remainder of the party.
Successful beyond their highest anticipations, they might be expected on the following day.
The morrow came, and with it Major Robison and his hardy, sun-browned, toil-worn band of attaches; and here, the family reunited, and all the characters safe, we might take leave of the reader, with the assurance that all the greater difficulties which had clung around the pathway of the Major had been surmounted. He had found the secret, and was, even now, a comparatively rich man. In fact, was there nothing more to relate than that they journeyed eastward to spend the winter, and transact some, to him, necessary business, returning again in the spring, to toil through many ensuing months; then perhaps our chronicles would here end. As it is, we shall not linger long before writing the inevitable “finis.”
The connection between Robison and Waving Plume had been essentially a financial one. Robison, at one time wealthy, had been involved in ruinous losses by a financial crisis, being left, not only broken in fortune, but heavily in debt. Impelled by various reasons, he sought the western confines of civilization, bringing with him his children, and a few thousands which, being settled on them, he did not feel himself called upon to deliver up to his creditors. Engaging in the fur trade to some extent, having intercourse with trappers, hunters, voyageurs, and Indians, he heard much of wandering life and wandering manners. From an old trapper, who, in a not over sober moment, became loquacious, he gathered a few points which determined him to drop his business and search for gold. This was, perhaps, as much on account of his health as anything else—his spirits, and consequently his constitution, being much broken by the tempestuous life-storms through which he had lately passed. Starting out with Ned Hawkins and another, a man well versed in all western mysteries, he had roamed far and wide, hunting and trapping, yet all the time prosecuting his search and his inquiries. Returning to the region of the trading-posts, he there found Charles Archer, a young man of twenty-one or two, with plenty of means, a go-ahead disposition, and who had sought the great west for the sake of life and adventure. Unfolding to him his plans and hopes, the Major had induced him to enter into the formation of a small, but selected company, and to penetrate into the regions lying along the Rocky Mountains. It was this company whom the reader has found introduced in these pages, and for the past three years they had clung well together, traversing all the region thereabouts, and even scouring the Oregon territory, and the streams that flow into the Columbia. These three years of life had made of Archer a perfect adventurer, while they had endeared him to all with whom he had come in contact.
One evening Adele and Archer stood together, looking through the dim twilight, out over the far-stretching plains. There was a smile on her face, both bright and joyous, for Waving Plume held her hand in his, and whispered into her ear, both low and softly:
“Yes, Adele, I have seen much of the ruder elements of life; I have drained the cup of danger, and lived in an atmosphere of hardship; but shall I not have my reward?”
What more he said we know not, but when her answer came, he printed a kiss upon her ripe, red lips, and then, with his arm twined around her waist, the two stood in the fast-fading twilight of the deep embrasure, whispering of hope, and love, and bright days to come.
THE END.
Printed by James Jackson, and Published by him at his Publishing Office, 2
Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, London, E.C.