As the æsthetic rule runs out West, this was a handsome man. But after even only a few minutes' view, one would shrink with terror, there was such a stamp of tigerish ferocity in the deep fine wrinkles of the brow, the restlessness of the gaze, the flutter of the nostrils, as though scenting carnage, and the cruelly mocking smile playing on the lips.
His face was clean shaven, we say—"shaved under" for a week, as barbers word it, so that every line and trait could be traced, and by them, by the olive complexion, and by the contour, the name of Harry Brown, much too Anglo-Saxon, applied by Corky Joe, seemed very unbefitting. He was rather of Mexican-Spanish and Indian race.
Whatever he was, and whatever Joe had mentioned in relation to him, this was no vulgar rogue. He still was an enigma whose veil was not entirely stripped away because one of his aliases was known.
Several minutes passed during which the forger went on with his work, which seemed mere amusement, with all the tranquillity of a nobleman in his study, well aware that nobody durst disturb him. It would have been difficult for his retreat to have been intruded upon without his leave, so well closed in was it. Besides, he had a brace of revolvers near to give a lesson to any imprudent person who presented himself unannounced. Finally, the stranger pushed the papers away from him, laid down the pen more carefully, with that respect which the high-class artisan has for his tools, rested his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand, and yielded to deep meditation. The attentive observer could read nothing on the visage, as smoothly cold as marble.
Over a dozen times the false lieutenant felt tempted to "settle" this man by putting a bullet into his brain, an easy matter; but each time his prompting was checked by a higher force, like that which causes a police officer to take his man alive, though the reward is the same for the body in any condition.
The man was not his property. He belonged to society, unto which he would have to render up accounts of his crimes; society alone had a right to try him and make an example of him.
For all but a quarter of an hour the musing man dwelt motionlessly staring into vacancy. It was a mute dialogue with himself. At the end he flung up his head sharply, sprang to his feet, and stalked to and fro in the narrow walk, his hands behind his back, and his head hanging. When he stopped, he was at the table anew. He actively busied himself in packing up the notes and papers in the toilet case, closed it with a secret spring, and put it under his pillow.
Like men who have no confidants, he talked in a low voice to himself whilst so occupied. It was rather mumbling than even muttering; but Lieutenant Carcajieu's "good day for hearing" was come. He overheard pretty well all. Two singular things: not only did the voice differ from Captain Kidd's in tone and accents, but the man, thought to be English, spoke fluent Spanish.
"¡Caray!" he exclaimed, "That infernal Corky Joe was lucky this time; it is long since I have had a solid house where I could feel comfortable and, mainly, safe. This confounded disguise began to choke me like a corset on the Fat Woman in the Show; Richard actually yearned to be himself again! By St. Antonio! What a jolly thing it is not to have to play a part. Even for an hour it is a luxury to be able to stretch one's legs mentally and bodily. But, pshaw! Still a few more days and we shall be at ease if this providential guide is to be depended on! He's a capital blade, a little blunt, like all English, quaint, novel, but the right stuff. I can't tell why, but I feel warm towards him."
The lieutenant could not help smiling at this confession.
"Besides, he saved my life," went on the other, "there's something in that. It is true that if he had known who I was, he would have let the bears chew me up, more than likely. Ugh! It gives me creeping all over again to remember that fix. However, I was saved to live many a day yet in and out of the cover of Captain Kidd. Kidd! Ha, ha! There's one who never suspected he would be useful after his death, when our partnership was suddenly cleft asunder by an insertion of my knife in his jugular as he was sleeping with liquor. But what's the sense of bringing his memory up? He's out of the battle of life; the secret is buried out of mortal ken."
As he spoke he performed his metamorphosis, the arraying himself in the shell, so to say of Captain Kidd. He dressed and "made up" so artistically, that Joe himself, who was no mean actor, could not help admiring.
The disguise was complete, nothing being omitted to aid illusion. The transformation was executed quickly too.
"A rainy night, ugh!" muttered the re-become Captain Kidd. "But prudence is the mother of security, and you don't catch me lying down without going the rounds of my camp!"
As the speaker began to break down the rampart which fended the doorway, the lieutenant abandoned his peephole. He crawled back as he had come, slipped forth from the opening, made his painful way through the thorn brake and came out into the clear ground. Convincing himself that nobody was on the lookout for him, he went over to the tent of Doña Rosario. Leon's blanket was in a heap by the door. He wrapped it around him, leaving his pistol arm free, like a Highlander in his plaid, and lay down, feigning to steep.
He had not been thus placed ten minutes before the tent doorway flap was lifted, and out stepped the captain with the bottle lantern.
The latter went the rounds conscientiously, rousing more than one drowsy sentinel with a swing of the lantern or a boot smartly applied. As the men growled he chuckled, and so worked himself up into a good humour like a bulldog who had had several successful scuffles. His promenade brought him round to Rosario's tent, but just as he was drawing back his leg to awaken the presumedly sleeping figure, there was the ku-klux of a large revolver going on full cock, and, without taking the trouble to rise, Joe challenged:
"No tricks on travellers. Who are you with a light, and so free with your boot?"
"A friend, a friend! Hold hard," the leader hastened to cry. "Here is one who keeps a good guard."
"The chief!" ejaculated the other, pretending surprise.
"You bet. And," here he lowered the lantern over the man, sitting up nonchalantly, but with the revolver ready, "it's Corky Joe."
"Same man, cap."
"But how do I find you here when Foxface was set over this tent?"
"Oh, that's all right, chief. 'Want to know?"
"Go on, I'm listening."
"Why, that young ass, the Drudge, sent to give Lottery Paul a rub down with the camphorated spirits, as you prescribed—"
"Quite right, I did."
"Well, he forgot the keg."
"Then I understand the rest," returned the gold seeker, laughing, "Foxface caught the Frenchman's complaint, and both took the remedy internally?"
"You've hit it, old man, they never left what would wet a fly's eye in the keg; the consequences are, that they are drunk as David's sow, and snoring away. But as I knew you wanted this tent well looked after, women being fine as needles, I took up my station here till relief comes."
"You are a trump, Joe, and did the proper thing. I am sorry it is so blamed cold and damp—I am frozen like a snow wolf myself, and have a fit of sleep on me. Try to keep your eyes open till you are relieved, and with that good night, lieutenant."
"Oh, I am not sleepy now, boss. Out in the open I git wide awake. Rest easy, anyway," he said, dropping down again in that favourite attitude of the veteran frontiersman, who knows that the prowling Indian will scarce resist the temptation to shoot an arrow at the sentry who is visible upright.
Kidd went into his tent, and the light was put out there. This marking, the lieutenant rose a little and whistled part of a tune in a low tone. The Drudge crawled up to him around the lady's tent, finishing the air.
"Take my place here in your own blanket, and let me have the signal if anything new happens."
So saying, the lieutenant vanished within the tent of Doña Rosario.
While Lieutenant Joe was so boldly spying upon his superior and managing to get a look at him, notwithstanding his precautions to preserve his incognito, there were other important events happening in and about Doña Rosario's tent full worthy of record.
After Captain Kidd left them the prisoner had held a long conversation with her fellow captive Ulla. They arranged that the latter should not for once go and be confined for the night with the late prizes of the Half-breeds, but keep with the Southerner, whether the captain approved or not.
Rosario was a great deal more agitated than the Scotch girl, though it was a question of receiving a call from Ranald Dearborn.
They were both ignorant at what hour he would come, and whether he could get back into the encampment secretly. But as it was a promise, Ulla assured her friend that he would not be easily impeded.
With the help of Leon, the girls lined the tent with rugs, furs, and mats, so that the doubly thickening the wall not only increased the warmth, which was no inconvenience, but prevented the least ray of light filtering. This would have betrayed that Rosario was awake, and not asleep, for the camp curfew was set at ten o'clock at the farthest. That was one of the points Kidd made when he went round before going to sleep himself.
The silver hanging lamp was muffled in gauze round its reflecting shade so as to diminish the gleam, the while it added a mysterious green tint to the soft twilight. Very little more than a pleasant glow arose from the brazier, which burnt pine knots, diffusing an agreeable odour.
At length Drudge was sent away. The two girls sat on cushions, like the beauties of the harem, too anxious to chat to pass the time away, and glancing ever and anon at a French clock on a stand.
On this evening, as we know, Captain Kidd received the sentries and ferreted about, but he came across none breaking his orders. Doña Rosario's habitation, along with the rest, appeared to be plunged in utter darkness.
As no doubt his captive reposed, the leader rubbed his hands gladly, and went to shut himself in his tent, so that Old Nick could not get at him, as the men playfully said.
We know by the foregoing chapter how the Carcajieu had made a mock of his contrivances.
After quitting the lieutenant, Drudge, with the passive obedience he showed, and the cunning he well concealed under seeming stupidity, began carrying out the order received.
It was then about half after ten.
It was a black night, the fine rain never ceased to fall, and, whisked under the natural vault by a rising wind, appeared to come from all quarters at once. There was no evading it; but Leon seemed quite heedless, though it must have pierced his insufficient garments. He stole away like an eel along the rocky edge, crossing the whole camp longwise till he attained the spot where the platform ended, and the cliff formed an unfathomable gulf where darkness deepened. He stopped short, and looked well about him to make sure he was alone.
Whether alone or not, neither he nor another could see any object though at touching distance. Reasoning that any watcher would, therefore, be perplexed to perceive him, the youth swiftly unwound a leather rope from about his middle. A giant pine leaned out from the precipice. To this he fastened one end of the lasso; coiling the slack up clear for running out in one hand, he attached the loop around a good-sized stone muffled with grass, which even frost had not killed, in a cranny.
He leaned over the gulf, and imitated with rare perfection the inquiring and rather mockingly intoned hiss of the whip snake calling for a mate. Any listener would have imagined that the reptile Don Juan, drowned out of his hole by the icy rain, was seeking with equal relish to taunt a rival or a ladylove to leave its burrow and respond to his challenge or advances. After having repeated this call several times, but without impatience, a similar answer came from below—short, sharp, shrill, angry, as if the rival snake was aroused and climbed up for a fight.
Most of the sentries were asleep, we know; and the others, whether experienced woodmen or not, would pay no attention to what seemed an ordinary incident of the night.
On receiving his reply, though, the youth flung the stone and coils out from him. Softened by the grassy matting, the stone could not be heard to land; but the snake hissed afresh, and the lariat was drawn taut.
The Drudge exhaled a long breath, as one delivered from mortal anguish.
In fact, it had not been an easy task in the perfect gloom, and guided by sound alone in a damp atmosphere, to swing a weighted cord to the very hand of a man expecting it. If, instead of his catching it, it had struck him in the face, he must have been full of fortitude not to have cried out. But chance had favoured the plotters.
Very soon, indeed, a figure loomed up, pulling the cord as well as clambering daringly up the cliff face, and with joyfulness leaped over the edge on solid ground.
"Thanks, my boy!" he muttered.
"Thank our Father above, Mr. Dearborn—it is He who did it all!" responded the youth.
"I beg your pardon, you have said the proper thing. It makes a fellow religiously inclined to be in such straits and miraculously pulled through them. Lead on, Leon, it is late—but first, let us undo the lasso, and efface the marks of my coming up and over."
"Are you not going back this way?"
"Dear, no; much obliged. In that little climb I nearly broke my neck a hundred times, short measure! Besides, it is not the getting out of the camp that will worry me. Make haste—the young ladies must be just dying from uneasiness."
Drudge unloosed the lasso and coiled it round him in a few minutes.
"Ready, sir?" he said.
"Show me the way. I am not able to get about—I cannot see at all."
"You need not fear, I know the road very well by this time."
"Where is Joe?"
"Don't know—want to see him?"
"Well, I should like to speak with him."
"¿Quién sabe?—who knows but we may run up against him?"
"Rather against him than a stranger. I feel like a housebreaker somehow; I suppose it is the night time, for our motive is good—even holy!"
"Come along. Take the bend of the lasso, and not a sound!"
"I am as mute as a statue."
Leon led the Englishman by the loop in the same direction he had taken to come. Dearborn stared and listened, but seemed to be the blind man in the game for all he perceived. On the other hand, the Drudge knew his path instinctively. In daylight he could hardly have gone more straight. After the still blundering march had continued some ten minutes, the leader halted.
"Here we are!" he whispered.
"Near the ladies' tent?" inquired the other.
"Within a step or two of Doña Rosario's tent; yes. Now, the rest is your affair."
"I suppose it is. But what can I do? I have never been further in than the dining room, so to flatter it. If I stumble over anything and make a noise, there will be an alarm, and all will be spoilt."
"That's true. I am sorry not to have thought of your having other eyes than mine. Follow me still, therefore."
"Good again. But, half a minute, my boy—where am I to find you in case I should require you?"
"Right here, sir, where we are standing. Must I not keep a lookout for your retreat?"
"So you must. You are right every time. I hardly know what I am about in saying or doing. The mere thought of speaking with the young lady freely unhinges me so that I—I fluctuate like a door in the wind."
"Be a man, sir; remember that on what you arrange in this interview is risked, not only your life, of which I do not know the value, but those of the two young ladies, one of which is as precious to me, sir, as the other, I daresay, to you."
"You touch my very heart, boy!—The idea terrifies me! But still it gives me the pluck which was oozing out at my fingers' ends. I feel up to the mark again. Come what may, I shall behave like a man, I believe. On again."
"Come on, but, more than before, silently! Hush, hush!"
They penetrated the marquee, the thick curtain, made heavier by the rain, falling behind them with a dull sound so sinister as to make them shudder. So does a pall flap on the bier in a sepulchral vault.
For over half an hour the two girls had not exchanged a syllable. The whizz and strokes of the timepiece bestirred them at last.
"Eleven," muttered Doña Rosario, impatiently and mournfully. "Oh, your friend will never come."
"Stop, stop; he is here!" ejaculated Ulla, rising, and restraining her deep joy from loud expression.
The pretended guide stood in the doorway, holding up the screen, and contemplating the two lovely creatures, whose fate might be determined by his mission, with as much love for one as pity for the other. After his great excitement and the strain on his nerves, he was pale. His right hand came round upon his heart to compress its throbbings; but his eyes flashed brightly with bravery, and his manly face was covered with gladness. His gaze centred on Miss Maclan, and approaching the cushion which she quitted, he seemed about to fall on his knees, thankful that they were met again. Rosario drew herself away into the corner, smiling and thoughtful at this knightly reverence.
"I am afraid this captivity is chafing upon you," he said, clear-sighted as a lover is to the least trace of sorrow on beloved features.
"It is true," she answered softly, "but my misfortunes have but begun. Think rather of what this poor young lady must have endured for a year, all alone in misery with not one to share her burden; friendless, in a strange, desolate region, far from all that makes living sweet. She has to believe that she is absolutely ignored."
"No more than you has she been forgotten," returned Dearborn, though without looking away from the person he addressed.
"Alas, sir, this being true," observed the Spanish girl gently, "at least, grant that it is so much misfortune that makes me unjust. It makes anyone hard, though with the best of tempers. I daresay I am wilful, petulant. Oh, I am! And all that—but look at my having to keep up the struggle all the time with misfortune. And I am only a girl too—a child, they say in the North, whose early years were passed in joyous, happy peace, surrounded by dear schoolmates, very kind to me. When the storm unexpectedly burst upon me, I felt as if I should never outlive it."
"Don't talk so, dear," cried Miss Maclan, with that proneness of distressed females to forget the tangible danger in order to condole over a sentimental grievance, which, in this case, simply maddened the male bystander. "Your sorrows are well nigh at an end, I feel assured. You are going to save her, are you not, Mr. Dearborn; and I love you, Rosie, I love you very much."
"I am easier," said the Mexican girl, "ever since this gentleman came into the camp; but still, you must not be too confident! The men you are matched with are very wicked ones, and there are ever so many of them too."
"Well, my friends count up to a good number. I have not started on this errand without knowing what may be my support. Our friends are brave and strong, and having their promise to help, I could be confident. To say nothing of the remains of your father's company, Miss Maclan, there is one man, the leader of the trappers—"
"You mean Mr. Ridge," exclaimed Rosario, sharply.
"Yes; they call him the Yager of the Yellowstone. He's an American—"
"That's the one! If he is on your side, you need not much fear."
"So you know him?"
"So does Ulla there, from my talking to her about him as a devoted friend of my family. With that man on the lookout to save me, together with his companion, the Cherokee, Mr. Williams, I do look up again with the hope that I shall be rescued from this wretch, the Captain."
"Well, things stand thus. Before morning I expect to see Ridge, and to concert with him on hurrying on the time for the removal of all you ladies from this camp."
"Heaven hears you! I pray it will help you."
"It is possible we may find assistance among Kidd's men too."
"Have a care, sir! All I have seen are very hangdog fellows," and Ulla shuddered.
"I know that. Be sure that I shall make no friends without the greatest prudence. I only trust, too, so far the Captain's right-hand man."
"Oh, you mean Joe?" broke in Rosario, joyfully.
"He worked this round so that we are in communion. He suggested my seeing you too. I do not know how he managed it, but he has levelled off obstacles. Besides, he brought me into relations with a young fellow, almost a boy, who has been most useful to me, I assure you. Without his helping hand, I could not have gained this place."
"Ah! You allude to poor Drudge now," said the two girls, with the same affectionate pity.
"That's the boy. But allow me to ask you, Doña, if you have had a long knowledge of them?"
"Ever since I quitted the borders in charge of these ruffians."
"Well, what is your opinion of them; your cold drawn opinion of them, as they say? You will readily understand that I am too much of a stranger to this part of the world, and such queer uncommon persons as I meet, to judge quickly."
"They bewilder me too," added Miss Maclan.
"They both have done me great services. They say they are devoted to you, Doña Rosario, but as nothing proves to me yet that this devotion is not assumed, I fear to be cheated, and even that I am cheated in trusting them so far. Nothing more closely resembles a good servant than a hypocritical one, and between ourselves, I must own that Corky Joe has no winning countenance, better ones have hung a man."
The girls laughed, Rosario the heartier.
"Poor Joe!" she exclaimed, "His face is not a good passport, but he is not to blame for that."
"I do not blame him for that, certainly," returned the Englishman, "and I do not say that is sufficient grounds for mistrusting him."
"You would make a mistake in that case, Señor Dearborn," said the Mexican, becoming serious. "He's a fine fellow, and I place my confidence in him."
"What do you think, Miss Maclan?"
"I agree with my friend; she has the proof in her hands that the Carcajieu stays near her to help her in case of dire need."
"Yes, but how and why? Do you mean to say he is placed near you by someone?"
"By that Mr. Ridge, perhaps?" suggested Miss Maclan.
"That may be," answered Rosario, contemplatively.
"Ridge is an extraordinary man," said Ranald, thoughtful himself. "He has a wonderful influence over the white trappers and hunters, wild Indians, and these Red River Half-breeds, who hate the Canadians and Americans alike, and yet respect him. They tell me that important quarrels have been decided by his plain word, and never any murmuring from the party who lost."
"But to return to the lieutenant," said Ulla.
"Yes," took up her friend, "of his true faithfulness I have ample evidence. It is a secret which I have promised to keep. Please do not doubt him any more."
"Here's another mystery! They talk of the plain, straight men of the wild frontier life, and, on the contrary, every other man seems to be a hero of romance or of the Newgate Calendar. This Joe makes me uneasy, like the gentleman, spruce, trim, quiet, with a sharp eye, whom one sees as a boy about one's father's house, and whom one imagines fearfully to be a detective to arrest the butler for stealing spoons; or a sheriff's officer to arrest papa, and who turns out to be a picture dealer come to see if the smoky old picture, so long our target for puffballs, in the library is a genuine Snyders or not. It is clear for me that your lieutenant wears a mask, and no pretty one either!"
"Perhaps the better to suit the faces around us, sir," replied Ulla, forcing a laugh. "These are white men's, but, really, the red Indian's, painted for war, is not more intolerable!"
"¡Dios mío!" interjected Rosario, "What's the odds! Are we not all other than what we seem here? Is not every one of us wearing a mask from Captain Kidd down?"
"In his case, it has slipped aside a minute," broke in a deep voice.
The girls started back in alarm.
"Who's that?" cried Ranald, turning round, and putting his hand to his belt, none too swiftly if there had been danger.
It was the subject of their former conversation, the Carcajieu.
"I mean to say," continued he, in a cold, stern voice, more authoritative than they had ever heard before, "that though your disguise and my own still preserve our identity, it is no longer so with our good Captain Kidd. I have succeeded in having an unimpeded look at his phiz."
"Can it be true?" ejaculated Rosario, clasping her hands.
"You have succeeded?" repeated Ranald.
"Yes; thanks to the clue you placed for me. Thank you very much."
"So you have fairly viewed him?"
"Yes; face to face—free from paint and feather—for upwards of half an hour, without his having the faintest warrant for imagining that I had him under the lens."
"Ah! That's why you announced yourself in that rather theatrical manner you use out here?"
"Theatrical, eh? Well, if you mean tragic, you are right, sir. By the way you were worried about who placed me on guard over this young lady? I heard that too. Nothing to apologise for. Well; it is not over the young lady that I am placed, and it is not Jim Ridge that orders me here and there. I am attached to Captain Kidd, ladies, and Mr. Guide," said Joe, with an ominous smile, "and it is Uncle Sam that set me on him. That is all I can say. As for listening to your talk, I did it because of a powerful interest. It is only then I do play the spy, I hope."
"It does not matter a bit, sir!" cried Rosario, in her impulsive way. "This time, as a listener, you have heard good of yourself—but I shall never have done praising you; but go on and tell us about that dreadful man!"
"I came for that, and I waste no time, for it is valuable. To be brief—the commander of these scoundrels, calling himself Kidd, is not Kidd at all, but a younger man—looking thirty, but may be more. He's dark enough to be taken for an Indian or Mexican. He's a handsome man for those that like the King of the Gambler's type. I know that under the name of 'Hank,' which is Harry, Brown, rather notorious down South, he has been outlawed by the Government. Folks laugh at the District Courts, but as their warrant commands the military to lend hand for an arrest, I guess Mr. Brown thought it judicious to leave civilization. But even that name may not be his original one, or really his. It may conceal something blacker in the past. For one, may not Hank Brown be Corvino, or Cornelio Bustamente, whose portrait you traced, señorita?"
"As you spoke the same idea struck me, I do not know why. The more I think it over, the more solid the impression becomes. Besides, this Cornelio Bustamente was the bounden friend of Don Miguel Tadeo de Castel Leon."
"His agent in the shameful scheme to which you fell a victim," added the lieutenant quickly; "but where is Don Miguel, then, the infernal fiend who wrought out the plot? How is it he has contrived to get away without leaving any traces? It is important to learn that. Well, well, this is not interesting to you," he continued, looking over to Ulla and Ranald, who were not engrossed in this turn of the conversation. "We shall discover him, too, Heaven helping us! I have a clue that satisfies me, and sooner or later the whole skein must be in my grip. Ladies, have faith in me and in Jim Ridge; both, on our sides, are going to see this game out, or our bones shall whiten the mountains."
"Mr. Joe, I have entire faith in you."
"And I!"
"I, too!"
In his hands the lieutenant pressed the three held out to him with the same sincerity, Rosario's warmest with gratitude.
"Thank you all. But time is up! Say good bye, Mr. Dearborn, and follow me close."
"Aren't we to know any more?"
"Nothing to tell," returned Joe, bluntly. "Mr. Dearborn, five minutes to take your leave of the ladies. In your place, I should want ten!" he added, gallantly.
Luckily, Ulla was not a weakling, and into whatever danger her friend was about to plunge, she would not indulge in any demonstration of emotion before the Mexican. After her kind, the Scotch girl was as calm as an Indian. But the young man had been brought up in similar society, and comprehended what was under the ice. He felt her hand quiver in his, and noticed a faintly jealous glance when, in what he thought obligatory courtesy in the Spanish mode, he kissed Rosario's little hand.
"Six minutes!" said Joe at the door flap, in a railing tone.
Guided with brotherly care through the camp, Dearborn was taken to an outlet where he went away unnoticed. Joe watched his figure melt into the darkness, and muttered:
"That young man is awfully in love with the Scotch girl. They make a good pair. We must save them as well as this fiery spark of a Mexican. She's more my style. This would be no kind of a world if such as they were tormented, and a vile creature like Brown had a good time of it in the big cities."
Getting back to Rosario's tent, he relieved the Drudge for the last time, and, throwing himself down in the damp, slept or pondered, which none could say, till the peep of day.
Leaving the amiable Captain Kidd for the time being, but promising not to be slow in returning to him, we hasten to Old Nick's Jump, where we left a character as important and far more agreeable.
After having carried out their project in favour of the white women and their captors, the hunters deemed it wise to remain sheltered in the cavern. It was not from any likelihood of the Crow Indians making reprisals; it was clear enough that they had not recognized them, and had not lately been trying to trace them. The reason of their "laying low," i.e., lying perdu, was more powerful; Jim Ridge had to wait for intelligence before he would strike out.
The only persons excepted from this embargo were Filditch and Cherokee Bill, thanks to which exception Lottery Paul received the drubbing that gave him "funny bones all over."
These two were outliers to the rest, beating the bushes beyond the Jump-off incessantly.
In their exploration, they found out that they had not helped honest emigrants but the Half-breeds, and that the women were more likely to be their captives than their wives and children. They had been carried almost too far in their love for humankind, and the border law that colour must defend its own colour.
It is only fair to the Yager to admit that, even on learning that he had defended mongrels he was not sorry. He did not trouble himself any farther about them, but still thought of their prisoners.
Such was the state of things four days after the Crows had been beaten off. Some forty trappers, hunters, and the Scotch Canadians were actively cleaning up their firearms, and packing several days' provisions, all in anticipation of an expedition.
It was about midday, and the remains of deer meat and broken biscuit denoted that dinner had not long been finished.
"How are you getting on, boys?" demanded Jim, who had been busied in the same way as the others.
"First-rate, all ready!" replied one for the troop.
"That's the prime article! Now then, put out your feet! We must camp down tonight, a goodish stretch from here."
"You mean business?" inquired a Scot.
"Decided busy business," was the reply; "come this nightfall, we shall know jest whar we are located."
"But Bill and the Californian left us, as usual, at sunrise; whar 'bouts do we gather 'em in?"
"Don't you flurry," said Jim, "they have run on ahead, not to frolic, but to clear the trail and select a camping ground."
"Nothing to keep us here, eh?"
"Not a thing."
"Then we're off!" cried the party, all afoot, and everything buckled on.
"Come on!"
The whole band quitted the retreat by the subterranean way already described.
It was a cold but fine morning, the air pure, the sky blue. The sun had pretty well thawed the snow, and as a grizzled old trapper said: "Just the weather for a feller to go ten miles a-sparking his gal." The party moved in Indian or single file at a good, regular pace, which took them briskly away from the starting point. As the horses were useless, they were left behind under guard.
The course brought the long string of men past the Red River company, and Ridge remarked with some surprise that they who had been so long quiet now showed signs of pulling up stakes and departing. It was to coalesce with Kidd. This set Ridge thinking, and even made him uneasy. Still, he let no evidence of this appear, but went on in meditation. He was not the man to neglect any precaution, or learning what this movement portended. Whilst walking on he was fingering several pebbles which he had merely mechanically picked up, as an observer would have thought.
On coming to a place where their route made an elbow, he stopped, without saying anything to his followers, whom he let pass in review. When the last had utterly gone from sight, and he was sure no one else had an eye on him, he picked out three trees, which naturally formed a very regular triangle. Into each of these three he climbed to the crotch, where he scratched a ledge in the mossy bark, very like what a bird would make hunting for grubs. He kept the moss and grated wood carefully, and laid the stone in the little shelf, where it rested almost invisible, unless to an experienced eye, and that, too, looking for it. After having executed this operation on all three trees, we say, the Yellowstone Yager made a heap of all the moss and débris at the foot of the one which was apex to the trio. Leading up to this cone, scattered over with leaves, he placed lines of stones, to say nothing of other arrangements of pebbles which, though to all seeming in disorder, undoubtedly conveyed a meaning, for he went over them, and, like a printer correcting his types, modified them scrupulously.
Having once more scrutinised the neighbourhood, to be certain he had no spy on him, he took up his rifle and strode off, merrily whistling to himself, to overtake his comrades, who had not slackened their gait for him.
As remarked, Bill the Cherokee and Filditch had gone out scouting at daybreak. Ridge had given them particular instructions, and perhaps was thinking of them when he accomplished the enigmatical work described. It was presumably a signal message. The Yager was much too serious a man to lose his time in jokes. When he rejoined his men he said never a word on his doings, and no one questioned him; they do not question "the old man" of a party when out on the warpath with a variety of deaths at hand.
All the afternoon they marched on without anything notable happening except that a couple of bucks were killed, but shot with arrows, so that no noise was made.
About five p.m., a little after sunset, the band arrived where the halt for the night was decided.
It was on the edge of a rather wide clearing, as generally is the case, to prevent a surprise and attack under cover. Awaiting them, seated near a fire only just kindled, Filditch was puffing at a cigar.
The Cherokee Half-breed was not visible.
Old Jim put no questions concerning him, and did not even seem astonished at not seeing him.
A camp is not long being made by regular hunters. The two or three fires soon burnt up in that clear, smokeless, intensely hot way which is the despair of novices at camping. The supper being "put under the belts," everyone not on watch wrapped up in blankets, and went to sleep with feet to the fire.
At eleven o'clock Jim Ridge rose out of a reverie, went the rounds of the sentries, and finally dived into the underbrush, dropping at once so as to disappear promptly. As soon as he was well out of reach of the low firelight rays, he looked up at the sky and mountain tops to get his bearings, and then strode away, with wide opening of his long legs like one who knew thoroughly what he was about, and how the country was superficially formed.
His course was only an hour long.
Then he stopped at a rock overhanging a waterfall.
He felt that his weapons were in good condition before putting in each side of his mouth one index finger, with which he so changed the shape of that orifice that he was able to imitate to perfection the hooting of the big blue owl. That was a night bird likely to be about at that time.
Almost immediately a swish as of wings in the brambles responded. It was as if a bird had been deluded and rushed to see a mate. But no owl—merely a man emerged from the shadows scarcely twenty paces from the old mountaineer. The man came on with extraordinary confidence, keeping his gun only tolerably ready, and smoking a pipe with its cover off.
"Oh, these young fellows!" muttered the Yager, with a low laugh; "They won't learn nuthin', and it's no use talking to 'em, and, at the same time, this is a most promising one among 'em."
In a few minutes the two met, and cordially gripped hands.
"Well?" demanded Jim, curtly.
"An hour after you and your company marched by, so the Cherokee said, I met him. He was puzzling out something of a Chinese puzzle which you left for his wits. He told me that I should meet you here, and the time."
"Jes' so. Why didn't he come along?"
"Really, I do not know, Mr. Ridge," answered Ranald, smiling, for it was our amateur woodman; "I will add, if you will allow it, that you probably know better than I do. All he said was that you had given him something to do that would oblige him to turn back."
"That's so, too. I was afeard he would not understand my 'collar of wampum,' my forest letter," said Ridge.
"Oh, don't you cherish any alarm on that head. It struck me that Williams read your forest letter, as you style it, as easily as I should a page in a book—with this advantage, that he could do it in the dark with his fingers if need be. You are wonderful with your devices! But here I am; deal with me as you see fit."
"I want to hear you first," said Ridge. "We are quite alone here. You have seen the young lady, towards whom I think you feel tenderly, and have brushed up against Captain Kidd, the old pirate! Say your say about them."
The young Englishman reflected a while, and not till then did he reply, in a voice still unsteady with emotion, "If I were facing any other man than one whom I esteem as the King of the Wilderness; if I supposed you had any other sentiments in your heart than those which all, white, red and yellow, acknowledge to be worthy, I should speak out thus—I am a rich man in England, and will give you half my property for your inestimable help to free that poor young lady."
He fixed an anxious gaze on the hunter.
"Well, I ain't that style of man," said the latter; "and seeing you are facing me, what do you say?"
"To you, Jim Ridge," went on the young lover, with tears in his eyes, "I have to say this—I am really in anguish, and my heart is aching with apprehension. Those women surrounded by merciless reprobates—'tis a horrible situation. Counting that lad Leon the Drudge as a man, he and the Carcajieu and myself are a mere mouthful among the ogres. Except yourself and friends and the kernel of Sir Archie's ill-fated expedition, these wilds seem to swarm with dangers, not the least of which are human. To enable me to help those ladies, I will pledge you my life if I can only lay it down to save you and those dear to you some day. I am a newcomer here, Mr. Ridge, but I have already perceived that all bow to your will. Your incontestable superiority is owned by your enemies themselves."
"Well, Mr. Dearborn, I am inclined to believe we shall weld up the thing. Don't call it a bargain, that's all. But let us step away from here lively. It is no place for a treaty talk. In a short time, by that distant thunder, which is rolling snow and water, there will be a rise here, and we may be drowned, ay and frozen."
Ranald followed the veteran Westerner without a word. This reading signs of natural disturbances from afar impressed him powerfully. His guide went round the worn boulder, ascended some steps rudely shaped by time in the granite, and after gliding in at a cleft hardly at first allowing them to squeeze through, reached a deep cave not perceptible from without.
"One of my favourite nooks," observed Jim, taking matches from a dry corner, with which he ignited an elk fat candle, and then kindling a fire of ready piled wood behind a rocky mantle. "Nobody knows it except Bill Williams and me. You are the first outsider let in. We are quite secure. Neither inquisitive eyes nor greedy ears are open on us here; nothing but the dead are at hand," stamping lightly on a gentle eminence. "They, at any rate, keep a still tongue. Who are they? Men like myself, who show the settler the way to the best sites for towns where thousands of happy children will peacefully learn and play and grow up without even hearing our names. Such is the explorer's fate. But the flame mounts brightly—away with black thoughts. To our concerns; speak out straight and clear. It is needful that I should know your story completely, that I may see how you intend acting by that young lady for whom you own a tenderness. Then, here's my hand."
"I have nothing to keep back, sir. I thank God that even my youthful follies are not such as man blames harshly. My full title is Sir Ranald Dearborn Ivyson, a baronet of Teviotdale. My family, my position in the country and monetarily, are more than merely good. I was amusing myself with travel without any particular aim, when I met Miss Maclan at a garrison ball in Canada, and fell in love with her—at least, I thought the passion not shallow, but its full depth was immeasurable till I found her in danger."
"That's so, boy—it's like the freeze—go sudden to a fire, and mark how it smarts."
"There's not a doubt of it now. When your friend, Williams, directed her to give herself up to Captain Kidd's men, I felt my love almost overthrow my reason, for, though that told me he was ordering the best course, my sentiment urged me to disobey, and throw my life away by desperately preventing her being touched by those scoundrels!"
"Bill is a wise man!" interpolated Ridge. "His father was a large dictionary—he's the pocket-size—but the same amount of larning, pretty nigh, in both. But go on, you must be back within Kidd's camp by sunup."
"I have no more to say. When we rescue that young lady, and I place her in civilisation once more, I shall give her time to let mere gratitude die out, and then offer myself. If she accepts, I shall be a happy man. If she rejects, I—I—well, either a soldier I'll be, or I'll come and join you in your roving career—a miserable, heartbroken man!"
"A desirable recruit!" said Jim, with his low laugh. "Wall, it 'pears you are bound to do the right thing. I believe you, and this is a more solemn engagement than you had before. We shall help you."
"Thanks!"
"How are you thriving with the Cap.?"
"How am I getting on with Kidd? I have succeeded in deceiving him."
"Ah, but for how long? He's a cute devil. At the least suspicion, he will pin you to a tree, or riddle you with a repeater!"
"I shall take care not to rouse his mistrust," answered Ranald, with a smile of confidence.
"Heaven help you—you are the circus boy, who, seeing the lion tamer go into the cage so easily every day, offers to perform the critters the first day he falls sick. However, youth will be boastful. In any case, rely on me. That American girl is the daughter of my brother's son. And another belief of mine is all out of the tie if that poor young lad is not her brother Lewis. This depends, perhaps, on finding out who their gaoler is—this Kidd, in reality. Soon the means of identifying the children will be at hand if the father's loving eyes are baffled. There are more friends and allies yet to be seen by you. An old friend of my nephew Filditch is due right here, and right now. His name is Don Gregorio, Peralta, Lewis's uncle. From him, through a trader, come the 'pointers' that have set me against Captain Kidd. I allow that, so far, he has thrown me out, but I take a heap of beating, and then I am not conquered. But he has even bigger enemies than this child. Into his very camp, travelling along with his crowd from the very jump-off, is one of his foes, sir. He must have been in communication with you first off. He has been signalling to us all over the mountain, from smoke and fires, and played with the axe on trees."
"You allude to the Carcajieu."
"Ay, the Wolverine. You can 'go to sleep in his blanket.' You must put full confidence in him, for, otherwise, he might upset your plans without intending it in performing his special duty."
"There's no fear about that. Joe and I have no secrets for one another."
"So much the slicker! Now, we are full forty strong. Before this gang reaches the Yellowstone Valley, we shall be nearly a hundred, for the trappers are rallying."
"We are certain to succeed!" exclaimed the Englishman, gleefully.
"Certainty is a brittle twig. But 'our cause it is just,' as the song says, and we are going to do our utmost. Our enemies are the more to be dreaded as 'gold or a grave' is a motto that pulls them far. They are not the first band, though about the biggest, that have started for the Wonderland. So far we have driven them back, or Nature's scared them; but that cannot be etarnal. It is not more than a couple of days that I found out that the leader of these banditti is the notorious Captain Kidd. He is far down in my book for being the brother of one Miguel Tadeo, a scoundrel who has dropped through somewhere, though the frontier is alive with inquiries after him. Kidd is a pestilence, but Don Miguel is the black plague itself! He is overflowing with spite against his brother man. If he is hanging around me, why, I haven't seen a trace yet, and that's bitter on an old trail hunter that's consulted by guides with a big reputation. So be prudent, young sir, for you are in the hornets' nest. Kidd will kill you straight, on the faintest doubt, without any challenge. Other hostiles abound, keep before you as a fact: the Indians, and those Canadian Half-breeds. Their chief, Dagard, is a queer mix of good white and bad Injin, and a crime no more burdens his conscience than the last drink he took. Add that all the stray pirates of the prairie, hoss thieves, gold diggers, robbers, and skulks ginerally will flock to Kidd the moment he has an advantage over us which promises him undisputed passage into the Enchanted Valley. You see the scales are pulled down agin us!"
"I even have an idee that there's a secret agreement between Kidd, which includes Don Miguel, and this Dagard. I met more'n once down in Montana, and even farther south, the Half-breed Margottet, now the lieutenant of these Red River Rovers. Thar's some big scheme hatching in the Nor'-West, for the Injins have knocked under to the railroad on the plains as Big Bad Medicine; but cherish hopes, among the Apaches away South and up here towards the Queen's country. Ever since the Sioux were driven over the border, the Half-breeds have been saucy. Wall, you are doubly, trebly warned, young sir, and must abide by the consequences."
"Do all I can, I cannot pierce Kidd's game. Something in his proceedings upsets my calculations. If he were not so notorious during such a long time in the West, I should imagine him—but that's all nonsense! Anyhow, sir, mind that forgetfulness, rashness, blindness—they'll ruin, no—well, worse than that, they'll destroy all those girls and women. There are young men who love as strongly as you, whose sweethearts are in that band; fathers who sorrow like my nephew, whose da'ters are there cooped up. But I am glad to know you, sir! We have had gilt-edged Englishmen out here that brought servants from London, things in the shape of men, but who my lorded them and your graced them, and disgraced themselves!—They thought money would buy every mortal thing even here! No, sir, I am offering you my life, and Cherokee Bill's, and a score more, but not for cash! You have a manly nature, that's enough; that kind comes among the same kind when they talk to the hunter and trapper with no double tongue. The old country is no decaying tree, sir, when thar's young shoots like you!"
The speaker had been so unusually eloquent, unlike his brief, measured sentences, that not till now could his hearer get in a word which he was eager to say.
"I wish to tell you, Ridge, that Joe, whom you praise so highly, while rather mysteriously, assured me that Kidd is living literally behind a mask, and that he has seen it laid aside."
"Do tell?" inquired the Old Man of the Mountain.
"He told me that last night, a little thanks to my having fixed on a capital site over a burrow for the captain's tent, he was able to get a good look at him after he had unsuspectedly laid aside his daily disguise."
"Wagh! This is worth hearing."
"He says that the real face belongs to a noted criminal called Hank, or Henry Brown, which in turn hides one Cornelio de Bustamente."
"Bustamente! Oh! We've heard of him; the great St. Louis Forger!" cried Ridge. "Oh, why is not Don Gregorio on the spot? However, patience, patience. But the time is over for our parting. Haste away. I shall not forget that Kidd is Bustamente. In two days we shall meet again. Trust to Joe, he's not to be tricked even by such hardened rogues."
"But you do not tell me where we meet?"
"There is a swamp and burnt wooded stretch called Winter Black, or the Winter Burning."
"I can remember that."
"Good luck! Thank Joe for the clue he gives me. I'll question the boys on the point. Hurry off to your camp, for you have a distance to go. In two days, same hour, at Winter Black. Good-bye, boys!"
The two shook hands and left the cavern, departing oppositely at the mouth.
The rest of the night passed tranquilly. An hour before the false dawn an owl was heard lamentably hooting as if its night hunt had failed, and it feared it must go supperless to its couch. But Jim Ridge stood up, and answered in the same long-drawn, pitiful tones.
Those of the watch must have been more surprised than edified by the singular dialogue that went on between Old Ridge and his unseen interlocutor. All the wild beasts and birds of the field, forest, and mountain seemed engaged in a concert. The calls and defiant cries of various birds seemed to awaken bears and wild cats, and the coyotes wailed to the sharply yelping prairie dogs. The sounds were so arbitrarily arranged, that a conjurer would be puzzled to distinguish the sense of a single sentence. But the Yager understood it perfectly, of course, and what is more, seemed quite satisfied with the information so strangely conveyed to him. When it was over, he went and awoke an old beaver trapper to take his relief on guard, and remarked:
"Bill has done it! All goes lovely."
At sunrise the hunters resumed their march, though Cherokee Bill had still not joined. But Ridge again passed no comment on the absence.
It is commonly in September that the savages "go in for the winter hunt," in the region where our story takes place. These hunts are the more important from the animals' fur being in prime condition, and, of course, fetching a better price at the trading centres. The picked hunters of various Indian nations come into the great northern wilds, and are the more mixed up recently, as the railway pioneers and settlers arrive in too strong force to pay much heed to treaty restrictions. The upshot is, that while a tacit truce is tolerably well maintained, so long as every arrow and bullet is required to make "eatable meat," the view, often the contact of enemies, causes a stray hunter of any race to thread his way as gingerly as a soldier advancing among mines, countermines, and torpedoes. Unless under exceptional circumstances, though, the main bodies do not fall on one another. Personal interest, the only motor, imposes this restraint on their ferocious habits.
In sooth, besides the furs they sell, the red men have to preserve some for garments; moreover, there is the flesh of the prizes to be dried by sun or fire, jerked, or crubbed up with salt, to enable them to pass the rigorous winter so fatal to improvident tribes.
As the game gets crowded away from the farmers' axe and the locomotive engine whistle, it thickens, naturally, in the final retreats. In this quarter, it fairly swarms. The buffaloes run still in countless herds; there is plenty of elk, beaver, deer, bear, musk ox, foxes of several kinds, wolves, red, grey, and white, musquash, ermine, a few opossum; and, for winged game, turkeys, prairie fowl, bustard, eagles, and so on. And, besides, the clearer waters furnish fine fish—salmon, trout, perch, sturgeons, the great white fish, and small fry profusely.
Hence the nomads guard this territory as narrowly as their unsteadiness permits. As it is dishonourable for a warrior to use tillage implements, only one or two people sow a little maize, without much assurance they will themselves harvest in the crop. When there is a failure of game, therefore, misery is acute, and famine soon appears to decimate the decaying bands.
The inextinguishable hatred of the ancient possessors of the soil, springs from the invasion and hacking away of the hunting grounds. The trappers and hunters, who went rarely in large knots, were well armed and too well able to take care of their heads to be molested; and, besides, made, no great gaps in the herds. But of late years, selfish, moneymaking, pitiless slaughterers have come out from the advance posts of civilisation, and not only massacred the beasts wantonly for hide and fancy heads and horns, for mere ornaments in millionnaires' vestibules, but in their rear whisky sellers establish shanties. These grow like Jonah's gourd, and wither as fast, it is true; but on their ruins real settlers flock, and towns are speedily laid out. Deer will not abide sheep, it is well known, and so the Indians hate the farmer and grazier only a point less fiercely than these buffalo butchers.
As for the moral: the Indians say that the land was their fathers', or that of the strong hand. When they uphold the latter doctrine, the pioneers plead for the Government troops to take them at their word, or let them wipe the varmint out.
Closing this necessary digression sharply, we proceed with our tale.
The diverse aborigines assembled for the great winter hunt had never been so annoyed before as by the almost simultaneous intrusion of Sir Archie Maclan's sledging party from Canada, the Half-breeds from Red River of the North, and Captain Kidd's gold grabbers from the South.
The Crows had fleshed their arrows the first in the Scotch party, and the news had swiftly crossed the wastes of "a heap of scalps and plunder" being obtained. The mock Chippeway guide had become a hero of legend. The attack on the Half-breeds, though a repulse, was also commended, and Ahnemekee had added laurels to his wreath.
Whilst this news was still fresh, an Indian camp was established on the bank of Bear River, an affluent of Red River which does not always feed it, being sometimes "lost" in a sinkhole on the way when the waters fall low. Bears did not people the shore now; that was a tradition.
A considerable portion of the head tribe of Piegans occupied the score and a half of buffalo hide tents, sodded at the bottom edge to keep out the cold and wet. These Indians appertain to the great nation of the Blackfeet, still one of the most warlike and, consequently, most dreaded of the Nor'-Westers. They are a little free in their reading of hunting law, as they are known to go and steal horses on the Mexican frontier, whether the Apaches and Comanches like the inroad or not.
This troop comprised some two hundred "big braves." The several headmen, or captains, obeyed a sachem called "Knife-painted-with-Blood," or more concisely, "Red Knife." He had valiantly won the title by preferring hand-to-hand struggles.
He was only about thirty, standing clear six feet, and not bowlegged, more slender than bulky, but unusually active and skilful with various weapons, though with the knife he could execute any feat. His expression was a haughty one, rather majestic when not cruel and scornful. His smallish, black, beadlike eyes, deep set, sparkled with cunning, malice, and fearlessness. He was idolised by his followers, and though the office of war chief is precarious, and such a one is often forced to make concessions or be deposed, never had Red Knife met discussion for his order. He reigned like an Asiatic monarch.
Ordinarily, as the women and children are indispensable for the meat making, and fur and skin dressing, the Indians must have them and their dogs and pack ponies along with them. The dogs, for once, get fully fed, and so become too appetising with their round paunches, and are sacrificed in feast when not required for burdens.
On this occasion the Piegans had no living impediments in their camp, and the warriors had not replaced the war paint pictures with peaceful emblems. This proved clearly that this party only pretended to be out a-hunting, and sought an opportunity to outdo the Crows in an attack on the white intruders.
For some ten days they had been located at their regular encampment. To prevent quarrels, each hunting party occupies the same site from time out of mind.
Among Indian beliefs is the singular one that each tribe has an animal ancestor, whose image or present lineal representative is their totem, or sacred standard. Its shape is tattooed on the bosom. When the size or rarity of the actual animal prevents even its skin being portable, its figure is painted on a banner, extremely revered, and guarded by an old warrior, the counterpart to our ensign. Over and above this public token is another one, only known to the upper class of "men of the medicine," being a grand pass sign, practically universal. We have only to add that the good sense which tempers the superstition of the North American savage allows him, when hungry, to hunt, kill, and eat the animal of his reverence, though, truly, he always apologises by way of grace to the victim. But the supersacred emblem would be respected in any emergency. Luckily, this is chosen among such uncommon, even extinct, or, perhaps, fabulous creatures, that it would be exempt from maltreatment in any case.
The tribe of Red Knife were convinced that the grizzly bear was their great grandfather, and so always came to Bear River as a hunting home.
At sunrise of a fine day of dying September, the Piegans were rather lazily attending to the morning labours, the more disgustedly as these are usually turned over to the women.
The camp, intelligently placed on the water side, and otherwise defended by a double row of stakes, presented the untidy aspect of such places—"and smelt so, pah!"
War ponies, held by ropes to pegs, munched climbing peas. At the door of his tent, Red Knife—squatted at a fire—was regaling himself with a before-breakfast smoke. His eyes were half closed like a cat's. Two subchiefs stood by him with the same seeming inattention. After the horses had had their fill, they were taken to the watering place, whereupon the men might eat. So goes the care for the war horses: much like Arab rule.
Soon the chief was given his meat, simply enough composed of still fresh meat, roe smashed up with wild fruit to acidify it, and a bowl of hominy, or Indian corn hasty pudding, made savoury with bear's fat and flavoured with meat powder and a dash of rock salt. It was the hachesto, or crier, who was also the butler. When he had dished up, the commander kindly invited his lieutenants to squat by him and help him out with the repast. They nodded, laid by their pipes, and all three went to work without uttering a word. A European might not have relished the spread, even washed down with poor whisky and the icy water, but an Indian is not fastidious. When he has food, he eats gluttonously, absorbing an incredible quantity, for it is etiquette to refuse nothing and leave no crumbs. On the other hand, probably consoling their stomachs in privation by memory of past feasts and prospects of more, our red brothers support themselves with great fortitude.
Notwithstanding the quantity before them, the chiefs did not prolong the meal, which was over in fifteen minutes or so. The crier came up from where he was watching and handed the lighted pipe.
The other warriors, having finished breaking their fast, rolled themselves up in their wraps and went off in a doze by the fires. Such sleeping, eating, dozing, hunting, and fighting forms their life.
For two good hours all but the three leaders seemed reposing, and they never shifted their positions.
At about eleven o'clock the gallop of several horses was audible at a distance. The crier rose and hastened to the entrance of the palisadoed camp.
Coming up swiftly, he perceived three mounted Indians. They were armed for war, and by the foxtails on their leggings and by the grey eagle feather stuck upright over the left ear, one could conclude they were chiefs. They reined in when they arrived at the enclosure of pikes. The principal, as was shown by his keeping a shade in advance of the others, lifted his right hand open, the palm outwards, the four fingers kept together, and the thumb bent in. The hachesto made the same sign, and, going up nearer, saluted the newcomers respectfully enough, and in a low, measured voice, inquired their business. Being answered, he saluted again, and returned into the camp with his information.
Red Knife listened to the story in an unconcerned manner, but he ordered the visitors to be shown to him.
At the sound of the horses the warriors had awakened. The outermost went to take the horses from the guests who alighted. These then were ushered up to the trio of commanders, who eyed them coldly. The other three were in fighting dress, but were not painted in accordance.
"My brothers are welcome," remarked Red Knife. "Ahnemekee being a great chief in his nation, he shall take his place beside his brother the Piegan, and smoke the peace pipe."
Ahnemekee, for it was the Crow chief, bowed pleasedly at the compliment, squatted down, and took the pipe. For a while the calumet went the round. Etiquette directs that the guests must speak first and may not be questioned. The pipe ended with Ahnemekee, who knocked out the ashes on his nail and offered them ceremoniously to the earth whence the tobacco had come, and thereupon, bending toward Red Knife with a winning smile, wished him plenty of buffalo and success in killing bear.
With the same bland smile, Red Knife returned the compliment.
"Unluckily," added he, "game is scarce. The wilderness is getting swamped with 'the hatted men'—(Indians are self-distinguished as hatless)—the feather-heads get only their leavings."
"Yes," returned the Crow, emboldened at no allusion being made to the old-time enmity between the Crows and the Blackfeet nation, "not only do the Long Knives capture the game as if it grew for them alone, but the axe and the plough lessen the domains of our fathers. Soon will we be crowded against the rocks, and there shall we die in snow and ice for want of food. My heart aches to think of the miseries awaiting the Unishiniba—all Indians. As I submit, it seems to me my blood is weakened with water, that the marrow in my bones is swamp mud, that my eyes are dimmed as one looking through the glass peepholes in the stone cabins. I have gone into seclusion for eight days and there asked, asked, asked if the just Great Spirit has really allowed the palefaces to do what they like with what we deemed our very own."
"My brother is a wise warrior," said the Piegan, sorrowfully. "The speech from his straight tongue chimes in with the Voice that speaks to me in my meditation. Speak on, speak on, Ahnemekee—I hear not a Crow Indian, but one of the whole red race—it is a friendly ear that drinks in his words."
"Right! The chain of brotherhood still endures, and though time has cankered it, it is strong under the rust. When Yoheewah brought our fathers from the Eye of the sky, O, glorious Sun, that warms the red man and conserves his meat, then the Wacondah showed them the woods, lakes, streams, and prairies, and bade him 'Take, all is thine!' The warrior bowed to the Guide, and thanked Him. There were no white men then, they had not come over the Alleghanies to be our tormentors, our robbers, our slayers, with the fire in great guns. But the red men fell out with one another, and would not see there was room for all. The Great Spirit brought the palefaces hither to perplex them and punish them. Soon did they scatter them, setting the Blackfeet Sioux against the Mountain Blackfeet, the Crows against the Bloods. But still, the redskins have learnt the new kind of warfare. We have horses and weapons. All the route of flight of the Sioux through the Yellowstone was strewn with the cachés of the arms they could not carry, and Crows and Blackfeet have dug them up, and have been buying powder and ball with their furs."
"The hour of revenge has come, brother—I speak it! Why should we not all profit by it? And if we must wrangle and clapperclaw amongst ourselves, let it be over the spoil of the dead whites," said he, subtly. "Hunting! For a week you have laid here empty-handed, whilst I have pillaged a train and armed my men finely. It is true we have come off second best in an encounter with another band of intruders, but it was the snowstorm that drove us off. Let us unite and overwhelm these Northerners, and then crush out the prairie pirates from the gold mines. What does my brother think of my words? There are no more to come."
"My brother speaks to the point, his words fall on mine ear as sweetly as the eagle's scream, swooping upon its prey in its mate's hearing. The Piegan braves are not here to run buffalo and follow deer. They are gathered to drive the gold seekers into graves. But what can so small a force do, however bold and cunning? It is a chief who asks this. Let his brother answer."
"Red Knife is wise, though his hair is black. It is his wisdom that is grey. Ahnemekee will go to the Bloods, the Small Robes, the Blackfeet, and the Dacotahs. They will ally against the paleface robbers and butchers. The hatchet will be buried as against the red men on all sides, but the bundle of reeds, one for each tribe, will be hurled within the white men's camps. In four suns after this, hundreds of red warriors will gladly greet Red Knife at Elk's Leap, at the fifth hour of the night."
"If it be not contrary to the will of the Master of Life, the Knife-painted-with-Blood will be at the Elk's Leap."
It was as much of an acceptance as the Crow had anticipated. He rose, and was escorted to his horse by the sachem, whose companions were similarly polite to the other Crows.
The camp buzzed with a debate over the visit and the pledge, but was settling down to fresh calm when, about an hour after Ahnemekee's disappearance, an event occurred still more stirring.