CHAPTER VII.
AN IRISHMAN’S RUSE.
The greatest excitement prevailed in the hunters’ camp over the sudden, mysterious death of Wayland Sanford. Every thing within the young doctor’s power was done in hopes of restoring him to life, but all to no purpose. His limbs were cold and stiff, and his eyes, though wide open, had that stony, glassy stare and his face the ghastly pallor of the dead.
“It’s no use, boys; he’s gone,” said the young doctor; “his death by apoplexy was caused by over-exertion and mental excitement.
“Poor uncle Wayland!” sighed Frank. “We have all been afraid of this for years. He was a victim of the heart-disease and had a nervous and excitable temperament to aggravate it, and alas! the abduction of his daughter, the wearisome pursuit without food and rest, and finally, that paper placed in his hand by the ranger, did the work.”
“But why should it?” asked young Lyman.
“That’s what I can not tell,” replied Frank. “Uncle Wayland has been a man of the world—has spent much of his life away from home among strangers, in California, in Pike’s Peak, in the army upon the frontier, and to me his life has been a sealed book—a secret volume in which this very Rainbolt may be an important character.”
The lifeless form was placed upon a blanket near the fire, the rigid limbs straightened out, and the pale hands folded across his breast.
Ebony Jim burst into a paroxysm of sorrow, as he looked down upon the pale face of the colonel.
“What is he to you, more than a stranger, Ebony? and why do you mourn over him?” asked Willis.
“Oh, good Lor’! and wasn’t he de father of poor Florence Walraven?”
“And what about Florence? what do you know of her?”
“Why, wasn’t she de wife of Warren Walraven? and wasn’t poor Massa Walraven de good master ob dis poor, black nigger?”
“And what about your master and the Devil’s Tarn of which he forbade you speaking?”
“Oh, good Lor’! don’t ask dat,” the negro replied, glancing toward the form of the colonel. “I fears him,” pointing to the dead.
“He is dead; you need not fear him now.”
“De spirit ain’t dead—no, no; I’ll tells you some time, not now.”
Ebony was obstinate, and as Frank could elicit no information from him he turned away, greatly mystified.
By this time day was breaking, and before long the sun arose clear and warm.
Flick O’Flynn went out in search of food for breakfast, and soon returned with a quarter of deer-meat. A fire was struck and a great quantity of the venison roasted.
Breakfast over, a sad duty was to be performed—the duty of interring the colonel’s body.
An hour was spent in digging a shallow grave; the dirt being loosened with hunting-knives and thrown out by the hands. The form of the colonel was now wrapped in a blanket taken from the shoulders of one of the dead Indians, his face covered with his hat, and then laid away in the narrow sepulcher.
This sad duty performed, a council was held, and after due consideration it was decided that Frank Armond and Walter Lyman, with the Irishman, should pursue a southward direction through the Black Hills, while Willis Armond and Ralph Rodman, accompanied by Ebony Jim, should take a south-westerly course, and in case they did not overtake the savages before they reached their village, they were all to meet at a certain point near the stronghold known to the hunters, when they would make other arrangements.
Scarcely an hour after their departure, a score of savages emerged from the forest into the little glade, and, as their eyes fell upon the lifeless forms of their friends lying around, they uttered a wild, revengeful cry, and turning, they glided away into the woods like so many blood-hounds, directly upon the trail of the white men.
The course of Flick O’Flynn and party lay through the heart of the Black Hills, and over a rough, mountainous region, but they pushed rapidly ahead, hoping to overtake the savages before reaching the village.
The first day’s travel found them but fifteen miles from where they had started in the morning. At the end of the second day’s journey, they went into camp about two miles from the Medicine Bow river.
Almost wearied out, Walter and Frank stretched themselves upon the ground to talk over their serious predicament, while the Irishman struck a fire by which to prepare supper. But unfortunately, when the fire was struck there was nothing to prepare for supper, so O’Flynn proposed to go in search of game, leaving the young men at camp.
In a few moments after his departure, the young unskilled sportsmen seemed to forget the caution enjoined upon them by the hunter, and producing a pack of cards, concluded to indulge in the pleasant pastime of “seven-up,” until the loquacious friend and guide returned. However, the beginning of the game seemed to have been ominous of evil, for at that moment, four dark figures glided from the deepening shadows of the woods with a hideous yell, and, ere the young men had time to realize “the run of the game,” they were stretched upon the ground and bound hand and foot, prisoners in the hands of the Cheyennes.
Having secured their prisoners they set off toward the river, compelling the whites, with their hands tied behind their backs, to walk in advance.
In the mean time Flick was continuing his hunt.
He had pursued his course across the bottom to the river without finding any game, and turning, he proceeded down the stream. He had gone but a short distance in this direction when he spied a large canoe with a solitary Indian in it, moored near the bank. The savage evidently was waiting for some one, judging from the impatient look he would now and then flash into the woods at his side. Simultaneous with the discovery of the Indian, the Irishman heard a loud yell in the direction of the camp, and well he knew its import. But, to be certain, he turned and hastened back toward his friends, and as he neared the camp he saw that his fears were confirmed. Frank and Walter were prisoners and were being conducted through the forest toward the river.
The savages were going directly toward that point on the river where he had seen the Indian in the canoe, and he knew full well that he was one of the same party. So, turning, he ran with all possible speed back to the river. He reached the bank several rods above where the Indian still sat in the canoe, and, dropping upon his hands and knees, he began crawling down toward the red-skin.
It was his object to put the savage out the way, and as he did not wish to raise an alarm by firing his gun he resolved to trust in his shillalah.
The Indian was seated with his face down the stream, and, as Flick approached him, he discovered him to be a half-breed. He was dressed in an old ragged suit of clothes, no doubt taken from some white victim. An old straw hat surmounted his head, with what little there remained of the brim lopped down over his eyes almost concealing his face.
Flick crawled on with the silence of a shadow, and had nearly reached the canoe when his foot caught in a vine and he was thrown heavily to the ground, making no little confusion. An involuntary oath escaped his lips as he sprung up and prepared to flee, but to his surprise he saw the Indian never moved.
“Success to mees’ plan, he’s dafe!” muttered the hunter, and he moved on toward the red-skin.
He had almost succeeded in reaching the water’s edge when the savage turned his head and saw him. In a moment the red-man snatched up his tomahawk from the bottom of the canoe and hurled it at the head of the Irishman. But the latter divined his intention, and falling flat upon his face in the mud, the weapon passed harmlessly over. The savage did not utter a single word nor sound, and it was quite evident now that he was both deaf and dumb.
“And sthill so much the better,” exclaimed the Irishman, and quicker than thought he sprung up and into the canoe, and giving the half-breed a tap on the head, settled him down perfectly unconscious.
In a minute the Irishman had stripped him of his ragged clothes and donned them himself. As the Indian was the largest man, he (Flick) had no trouble in putting the clothes on over his own, and with the two suits on he appeared fully as large as the red-skin and equally as woeful.
Flick then saw a little bark canoe resting under some willows that fringed the bank. Drawing it out he placed the unconscious half-breed therein and sent him adrift, knowing that ere he recovered his senses he would be far enough away.
So far things had worked like a charm, and having smeared his face and hands with a pigment of dark clay, and drawing the old hat-brim down over his eyes, the disguise was completed, trusting to the gathering twilight to hide all imperfections.
Flick now concealed his shillalah under his ragged coat, his rifle under the seat of the capacious canoe, and then, procuring the savage’s tomahawk, took his seat in the canoe.
By this time it was nearly dark, and, inasmuch as Flick was to play the part of a deaf and dumb Indian, he felt perfectly safe in his daring feat to rescue his friends, but, when he saw the savages emerge from the woods and approach the canoe, his heart almost ceased to beat through fear of being detected.