CHAPTER V.
A ROBBER ROBBED.
The blood-red sun hung low in the western heavens, its usual brightness partly obscured by the blue mist that hung over the mountain and plain. The Black Hills lay dimly outlined against the murky sky. In the vast expanse of mountain and plain, but a single living object could be seen. That object was a large bird poised aloft above a narrow defile, or valley, in the Black Hills. For some time it seemed to hang motionless on the air, then it descended down, down until it was lost in the mountain shadows; then it darted up again, with a wild scream from the valley, its keen eyes fixed on some object far below. And what think you it was that Echo, the eagle, saw there?
It was a beautiful glade in the greenwood valley. A camp-fire burning in the center of the glade. A number of Indians seated around the fire. Several lodges standing in the background. An Indian encampment.
But two of the Indians claim our especial notice. The young chief, Allacotah, and his beautiful wife, Silver Voice.
The young chief sat apart from his companions, apparently in deep thought. Presently, the light figure of an Indian woman glided from one of the lodges in the background and approached him. She was young, not more than three and twenty. Her movements were graceful as the fawn’s; her voice as sweet and clear as the chimes of a silver bell. She was dressed in a short frock of some green material, beautifully ornamented with Indian handiwork, while beaded moccasins and white-fringed buck-skin leggings incased her feet and ankles.
Approaching and laying her hand upon Allacotah’s shoulder, she said, in pure English:
“Allacotah, my husband, seems thoughtful.”
The young chief raised his eyes and gazed into those of his wife.
“That is true,” he replied; “but the voice of my beautiful wife cheers me, though I was only thinking—thinking of our great chief, Black Bear.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the beautiful Indian woman; “it had not occurred to my mind before, that to-day Black Bear was to return from the great wigwams of the pale-faces.”
“Yes, and may his heart not be filled with evil when he comes. Black Bear is a bad man. He causes much trouble between the pale-faces and my people. He has made many widows and orphans among the great Cheyenne nation—waged war till Cheyenne blood flowed like water.”
Two miles from the Indian encampment on a high, bold bluff stood Rodger Rainbolt, the ranger. One hand was resting upon his animal’s arched neck, while with the other he held his spy-glass to his eyes as he watched a tiny dark speck in the misty sky before him. That speck was Echo, his eagle.
“Yes, there are Indians there,” he muttered to himself, “and perhaps they are the ones that I am in pursuit of. Echo, noble, sagacious bird, has traced them out, and now he marks the spot by poising himself in the air—now by descending—now rising again—now circling around and around. Ah, noble bird! he circles away, away; he knows his mission is done for the present, and now—”
He lowered his glass and taking the coiled horn from his saddle, placed it to his lips and blew a shrill, prolonged blast, which, as it echoed far back over the hills, reached the ear of the eagle, and immediately it headed its flight toward its master. In a few minutes it was perched upon his shoulder.
“Your work is well done, Echo,” said the ranger, caressing the bird, “and I have only to await darkness to accomplish mine.”
The Cheyenne encampment was only a temporary one, the permanent village of Black Bear being located several miles south-west within the southern extremities of the Black Hills.
In anticipation of the return of Black Bear, or Blufe Brandon, preparations were made for his reception; for a mounted messenger had arrived in camp during the day and informed Allacotah and his braves that Black Bear, with a beautiful captive, and accompanied by several of his warriors, would arrive there some time during the evening.
As the time for the coming of the distinguished white chief drew near, and darkness gathered around, preparations were hastily made for his reception.
Presently a wild yell announced the expected arrival.
The name Black Bear had a significant meaning as applied to the Renegade, Blufe Brandon. Had one who had never seen him in his disguise, beheld him when he entered the lodge of Allacotah, they would have started up with sudden fear, for there was nothing natural in his appearance.
The villain was completely disguised in the skin of a black bear, even the head of the animal rested upon that of his own with its round, glaring eyes, its open mouth, red tongue and white fangs in lifelike presentation. As the nose of the animal projected over the head of the renegade, the face of the latter was completely concealed by long, straggling hairs hanging from the under jaw of the animal’s head, yet the ruffian’s eyes shone through the hairy mask like those of a serpent through the dark. His arms and legs were wrapped in the skin carefully taken from the animal’s limbs with the long claws attached, and dextrously fixed to his toes and fingers—thus perfecting his disguise so completely that he looked like a bear walking erect upon his hind feet.
In his arms the renegade carried Silvia Sanford, who a few minutes before their arrival had fainted from sheer exhaustion, long fasting and excessive heat.
A rug of skins and robes was laid near the fire, and the pale and beautiful captive placed upon it. Black Bear then turned to Silver Voice and requested her to look after the maiden’s wants, and assist the medicine-man in restoring her to consciousness.
Silver Voice advanced, and bending over the captive, gazed into her pretty, pale face. A low cry escaped her lips, and beckoning her husband she pointed down, and said: “Does it not look—”
“Never mind what the girl looks like, but hasten to restore her. That girl’s life is worth ten thousand dollars to me.”
It was Black Bear who spoke, his voice sounding hoarse and hollow beneath his hairy mask. Allacotah was a chief of power and distinction, but Black Bear was his superior—hence the latter’s authoritative, indignant command.
Silver Voice, with the assistance of Allacotah, began the task of restoring the captive to consciousness. Water was brought from a spring hard by and the brow of the maiden bathed. A cordial made of some wild herbs was administered, and by a vigorous chafing of the limbs and temples, Silvia was brought back to life.
“Put her in there,” said Black Bear, pointing with his claw-clad finger to Silver Voice’s lodge; “the presence of so many warriors might excite her too much. She must have rest and food.”
Allacotah lifted her in his strong arms and carried her into the lodge where Silver Voice had arranged a neat, comfortable couch of skins. Laying her upon the couch, the chief went out, leaving the two women alone.
Silvia opened her eyes and gazed around.
There was a fat-lamp, made in a rude stone-bowl, burning in the lodge, and by it Silvia was enabled to see where she was. All around her wore an air of neatness. The floor of the lodge was laid with a carpet of buffalo-robes, and the walls of the cone-shaped structure were hung with beautiful tapestry of buck-skin, highly and artistically ornamented. Strands of wampum, stuffed birds of beautiful plumage, curious figures carved from wood and stone were arranged around the walls. The only object of civilization to be seen was a small, cracked mirror.
When the captive saw the beautiful Indian woman tending over her with tears in her eyes, her heart beat with gentle hope.
“Rest easy, dear girl,” said Silver Voice, kindly, “you are greatly fatigued.”
“Where am I? and who are you with the tender voice and angelic face?” asked Silvia, rising to a sitting posture and gazing around, her mind still confused and bewildered.
“You are in the encampment of Allacotah, and I am Silver Voice, Allacotah’s wife.”
“Where is Black Bear?”
“The inhuman wretch is out by the camp-fire,” the woman replied, bitterly.
Silvia was surprised by her manner of speech. She saw that the Indian woman entertained a feeling of intense dislike toward the chief.
“Then you do not respect the great chief,” said Silvia, “judging from your remarks.”
“No, I hate him!” she fairly hissed, “the inhuman, merciless outcast of his own race!”
“And do not his warriors like him?” asked Silvia.
“Yes; those whose hearts are vile as his,” Silver Voice answered, “and, dear girl,” she continued, coming closer and speaking lower, “if it’s in my power, and the power of Allacotah, you shall never, never suffer captivity at his hands!”
Silvia’s face brightened; then it became clouded again as she said:
“But he told me he was going to sell me to a robber-captain—that the robber had promised him a great reward for me, but how a robber-captain here in the Black Hills knew me is quite a mystery.”
“Did he mention the robber-captain’s name?”
“Yes; I believe it was Dungarvon—Duval Dungarvon.”
“God have mercy!” exclaimed the woman, frantically. “Duval Dungarvon! Duval Dungarvon! Oh, dear girl, better take your own life than fall into the hands of that man. He is a fiend, a devil! It is not your beauty, nor his love for you that makes him desirous of possessing you, but it is to torture you, and grind, grind your father’s heart out for revenge—bitter, bitter, BITTER revenge!” and the beautiful woman fairly raved in her excitement.
Silvia was completely mystified by her strange words—her wild emotion.
“I do not understand you, Silver Voice,” she said.
Before the Indian woman could reply, a wild commotion among the savages outside arrested her attention. She turned and went out, and Silvia involuntarily arose and followed her.
The women were greatly surprised to see the savages, their faces convulsed with horror—their eyes lifted upward with a terrified stare, speechless and motionless. Following the direction indicated by their startled gaze, the women became equally as terrified.
And why?
Down the valley from the north floated in the air high above the tree-tops—far above the reach and power of man, an awful figure—the figure of a human skeleton, its ghastly proportions revealed by the flame and smoke emitted from the great sunken eyes, the distended nostrils and wide, grinning mouth. Great white arms beat and buffeted the air like the wings of a struggling vampire, while scream after scream rent the air.
It was the Aerial Demon of the Mountain, the scourge of the Black Hills—the terror of the Indian.
Silvia’s face became white with terror, and she was compelled to cling to Silver Voice for support.
“Come into the lodge, dear girl,” said the chief’s wife, in a whisper, “it is the Aerial Demon.”
They turned toward the door of the little cone-shaped structure. Just then the clatter of iron-shod hoofs coming up the stony valley caught their ears. They stopped.
The next instant a white man, mounted upon a mettlesome animal, dashed from the gloom and stopped so quickly by the side of the terrified women that his animal was thrown back upon its haunches.
It was Rodger Rainbolt, the ranger!
Before Black Bear and his savages could draw their attention from the Aerial Demon—which in a moment, almost, had passed over the camp and disappeared—the daring ranger leaned forward in his stirrups—placed his arm about Silvia’s waist—lifted her from the ground as though she had been an infant—whirled his animal southward and dashed away into the gloom of the forest, pursued by Black Bear and his warriors.
As the ranger turned his animal he gave Silver Voice one quick glance that seemed to pierce her to the heart. She threw up her hands—clutched wildly at space—uttered a low, convulsive sob and sunk unconscious into the arms of her husband, Allacotah.