“What have you on your mind now, Roger?” asked Dick, realizing how serious his companion had become.
As a rule Roger was a light-hearted boy, so that the change was all the more noticeable whenever he devoted himself to evolving some idea that had occurred to him.
“Oh, I was only thinking how easy it would be to get all the fresh meat we needed if only we could stay in one place,” was his reply.
“What sort of fresh meat do you mean?” continued the other.
“Four different times now,” explained Roger, “I have seen those big jack-rabbits jump out of some copse, or a crack in the rocks, and bound away. Each time, just from force of habit, my gun would fly to my shoulder, and I found myself covering the jumper; but of course I did not mean to pull the trigger.”
“No, because our ammunition is scanty, and, if we have to fire a shot, we should bag something larger than a rabbit. But, Roger, please go on and explain what you mean.”
“Only this,” the other added; “we could easily make traps, and snare some of these fat rabbits if we were in camp. Keeping on as we do, that’s out of the question. So, in the end, I suppose we must use our guns to bring down a deer, or a buffalo, if we have the good luck to run across one.”
Mayhew came to a full stop just then.
“There is something coming this way!” he announced.
“It sounds to me as though it was a pack of excited dogs, or wolves in chase of a breakfast,” said Roger, after listening a moment.
Dick nodded his head in a fashion that told that he was of the same opinion. Indeed, as the sounds were constantly growing louder, there could be little doubt concerning their origin. The snapping yelps of wolves in full cry, once heard, cannot again he easily mistaken. There is a thrilling import to the sound that goes through one like a galvanic shock.
“They must he chasing a deer,” Roger hazarded.
“Yes, and heading straight this way!” added Mayhew.
“Perhaps this is the chance we have been waiting for,” ventured Roger, as he handled his gun eagerly.
“No harm done in getting ready, that I can see,” observed Dick, sagely.
“Let us spread out just a little,” suggested Mayhew, who, being a veteran hunter, knew all about the habits of wolves when in pursuit of their quarry.
“Yes, I like that idea,” agreed Dick, “for they may pass to the right or the left, and then the one on that side would get a fair shot. Remember, Roger, take your stand, and after that be sure not to move. If you did, you might cause the deer to sheer off, and us to lose our breakfast.”
Mayhew stood still, while Dick hurried off to the right, and Roger took to the left, though neither of them went more than a hundred feet. In fact the clamor was drawing so close now that at any minute they might expect to catch their first glimpse of the chase.
All of them stood like statues, their eyes riveted on the quarter whence the wild yelps arose. They could hear the rush of something moving swiftly through the brush, and the sound grew constantly in volume.
Suddenly a running animal came into view, a lordly elk, Dick instantly discovered, and a buck at that. From the manner in which he ran it was evident that either the elk was lame, or else had been chased so far that he was becoming exhausted.
Close at his heels came four ferocious gray wolves. They were spinning along at top speed, their red tongues hanging from between their open jaws, where the white teeth gleamed cruelly.
The boys had run across another species of wolf since leaving their old hunting grounds near the mouth of the Missouri. This was the smaller prairie wolf, an animal akin to the coyote. But they saw at a glance that these were the large, gray timber wolves, more to be feared than any other species, especially if they were half starved.
The poor exhausted elk was apparently on his last legs. He seemed to realize this fact, too, for, as the boys waited impatiently for the chase to reach them, they saw him stumble, and fall to his knees, as he turned to face his foes.
Instantly the pack leaped upon him. One was sent whirling through the air, torn by the sharp antlers of the buck; but the others quickly had the gallant elk down on the ground.
“We must chase them off!” cried Dick, starting on the run toward the spot.
Roger and the guide followed, so that the three of them were running as fast as they could in the direction of the tragedy. They knew how quickly wolves can tear the carcass of their quarry, and realized that, if they hoped to save a portion of the elk’s best quarters, they would have to hasten.
The wolves quickly discovered their presence; but they were also very loath to abandon their feast. Indeed, it seemed for a moment as though they meant to dispute the right of the newcomers to the game their cunning and ferocity had pulled down, for they crouched there, and growled, and bared their teeth as the trio approached.
“Be ready to defend yourself, Roger!” called out Dick, “but do not shoot unless it is absolutely necessary!”
The wolves realized that they must yield up their quarry unless they really meant to fight, which would be foreign to their crafty natures. Doubtless they knew that man was an enemy to be feared, even though he might only be an Indian brave, armed with his bow and flint-tipped arrows.
They accordingly retreated, though turning around from time to time as though half inclined to come back and have it out with the spoilers of their well won feast.
“We’ll give you the leavings, never fear,” laughed Roger, when he saw that there was a fair portion of the elk still untouched, from which they could undoubtedly obtain an ample supply of meat. They set to work with a will, and soon had obtained all they thought necessary.
All this occurred while the hungry wolves remained in sight, skulking here and there, sniffing the air in a beseeching manner, and once in a while giving vent to a plaintive howl that sounded strange, indeed, heard in the broad daylight.
No sooner did the three hunters start to leave the spot than the eager animals could be seen turning, their natural sense of caution serving to hold them back, while the pangs of hunger urged them on.
“If there had been more of them,” Dick commented, “the chances are we would not have been able to take their meat without a fight.”
“Even those four might have tried to scare us off if it was later in the season, when they are half starved,” Mayhew told them. “Just now the wolves are fat after the fall, when hunting is good; that is, fat for their kind. But, when their flanks seem to almost meet, and they are gaunt with hunger, they make a terrible enemy to attack.”
The two lads exchanged glances.
“Yes, we know, for we have been through just such an experience,” said Roger, as he drew back the sleeve of his hunting tunic, to exhibit a long, red scar. “That is something I carry to remind me of the time. I sometimes dream of it, and can see the terrible mob of half-crazy wolves leaping up at my throat, while I did my best to beat them back.”
“If it hadn’t been for the coming of some hunters with their dogs just in the nick of time,” added Dick, “I think both of us would have been pulled down and killed by that pack. It was one of our narrowest escapes.”
“And we have had a good many,” said Roger, smiling as his memory sped back to former scenes.
As all of them were very hungry, their one thought now was to cook some of the happily-secured meat as soon as it could be arranged.
“Here is as good a place as we can find,” suggested Dick, “and, unless I am mistaken, we will be able to get what wood we want without going far for it.”
“The kind that will make next to no smoke, you mean!” Roger remarked, and the other nodded.
There is a vast amount of difference in wood. Well-seasoned stuff of a certain variety will burn, and give off hardly any smoke; on the other hand, if the fuel is partly green, or obtained from a certain species of tree, it will send up a black column that can be seen a long way off.
When hunters or Indians wish to communicate with each other, even though miles apart, they take this latter kind of wood for their fire; but, when they desire to do some cooking while in the enemy’s country, with keen eyes on the watch around them, it is of course necessary to attract as little attention as possible, and on that account the kind of fuel that gives out no betraying smoke is chosen.
Of course this was what Dick and his two companions now did; and also the fire was built in a depression among the rocks so that it might not be too prominent.
Here they busied themselves cooking small pieces of the elk meat. Their method of doing it was exceedingly primitive, for it was thrust close to the fire by means of long splinters of wood, and turned around until well scorched, when it was devoured with much satisfaction.
It requires a vigorous appetite to really enjoy cooking of this type. Many boys of to-day would turn up their noses at such food, and go hungry for a while, though in the end they might come around and ask for a portion.
They spent half an hour about that small cooking-fire. At the end of this time all admitted that they were satisfied, and could not eat another bite. However, at Dick’s suggestion, some more of the elk meat was cooked, to serve them for a “snack” in case circumstances should not allow them to light a fire later on.
It was Dick who always thought of the future. Roger, with his happy-go-lucky ways, was, as a rule, content to consider only present necessities. When he had eaten, and felt satisfied, he did not know why any one should borrow trouble thinking of something far in the future. In fact, he generally took to heart that passage he had heard his father read from the Good Book at home, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” and applied it to many ordinary occurrences.
After leaving the place where they had enjoyed this good breakfast, of which all of them were in such need, they laid out a course that would take them to a section of the country that they had not as yet visited.
All the time they could hear occasional strange roaring or hissing sounds that aroused the utmost curiosity, for they did not know at what moment they would come upon some new and startling mystery. This enchanted land was apparently the home of innumerable weird sights such as a white man had never before set eyes on; and, as they continued to advance, they were constantly reminded of this fact.
So, when Roger, who was a trifle in the advance, called out that they were face to face with a gigantic “paint pot,” the others held their breath as they pushed on to see with their own eyes what he could mean.
It was indeed a sight well calculated to make the boys stare, and rub their eyes in wonder, as though they half believed they must be dreaming. If these wonders of Yellowstone Park elicit cries of delight from tens of thousands of tourists in these modern times, imagine how remarkable they must have seemed to these pioneer lads more than a hundred years ago.
“When you called it a paint pot, Roger, I think you hit the bull’s-eye, for it does look like that, with all those colors boiling up in such a crazy fashion!” Dick presently remarked, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them.
“But what is it made of, I’d like to know?” demanded the puzzled Roger.
“Colored clay, in the shape of mud, that is boiling all the time. Be careful how you put your hand to it. See how the steam keeps on rising. It must be pretty hot stuff!”
“But what makes it boil that way? There must be a fire of some kind deep down in the earth?”
“Nothing else would make all these fountains of hot water, and even the rocks in some places feel warm,” admitted the other lad, who was hardly less amazed than Roger himself.
“It must be some sort of volcano,” Roger continued, thoughtfully. “It has no visible cone, like most of them do, and so the heat escapes in this way through hundreds of little vents.”
That is about the nearest explanation any scientist has ever been able to give why this one region in all the world contains innumerable geysers, hot springs, boiling colored mud pots, and various other wonders of Nature. (Note 5.)
“All I can say is that I don’t blame any poor Injun for believing the place is Evil Ground,” muttered Mayhew, as he stared at the strange spectacle of that blue and yellow and green mud boiling ceaselessly, and throwing off steam that had a peculiar odor, unlike anything they had ever smelled before.
He looked around him, and shrugged his shoulders. So many remarkable things were to be seen, such as a frontiersman might well view with alarm, that it was no wonder Mayhew felt uneasy. Left to his own devices he would have turned his back on this enchanted region, and considered himself a lucky man if only he might get away with his life.
“It strikes me,” Dick observed, “that we need not hope to find Williams anywhere about here, if, as we fear, he has been taken prisoner by those Blackfoot Indians.”
“No, because they would never come to a place like this, unless their old medicine man was along to make a palaver with the Evil Spirit,” Roger suggested. “That is what I heard a Mandan brave say, and I guess it must be about so. We will have to go further, and look for Jasper elsewhere.”
Mayhew seized upon this hint to make a start, and, noticing how anxious the scout seemed to be to shut out the strange spectacle of that ever boiling pool of gayly tinted mud, the boys followed at his heels.
“I can hear other spouting fountains not far away!” declared Roger. “Sometimes it is like a giant snake hissing, and then again I seem to catch a distant but terrible roaring sound, reminding me of that fierce bear in the cave.”
“Even if the winter is coming on here, there are plenty of birds still to be met with,” Dick remarked, as a flock of cawing crows started up from a tree-top near by, and flew away.
“Yes, there are hawks also, and I am sure I saw a pair of great bald-headed eagles soaring away up in the sky, wheeling in circles as they rose. Besides, we have stirred up many of those brush fowl that are so much like our chickens at home, and make such fine eating.”
“It would be a great place for a hunter or a trapper to spend the winter,” Mayhew commented, “if only he could get used to the awful things there are going on in this beautiful section of country. You see, the snow must soon melt where there is so much heat; and that keeps the grass green for the deer and the buffalo.”
“Hark!” exclaimed Roger, stopping suddenly.
His face lighted up with eagerness, and Dick was filled with curiosity.
“What did you think you heard?” he asked, presently.
“The signal we want to catch more than anything else,” came the confident reply.
“Not the whistle Jasper Williams taught us to practice, Roger, and which he uses when he wants to communicate with friends?”
“That, and nothing else, Dick. I am sure I caught it, coming from somewhere over to the right.”
“Then why not answer it?” Dick told him.
“Do you think it would be wise?” asked the other.
“We want to know if Jasper Williams is near by, and that is the best way to find it out. You can give the whistle, Roger, for I have heard you practice it many times.”
For answer Roger puckered up his lips, and emitted a peculiar little trill. Should any one not familiar with it hear this sound, he would naturally imagine some bird was calling to its mate.
All of them stood there, eagerly waiting to discover if Roger’s note called forth any response. Before ten seconds had passed there came a faint whistle, very like that which the boy had given.
“There, did you hear it, Dick?” gasped Roger, turning a flushed face toward his cousin, while his eyes sparkled joyously.
“I heard a sound that might be just such a whistle as Jasper taught us,” replied cautious Dick; “but don’t build too many castles in the air, Roger, or you may be disappointed. Try again!”
Roger was only too willing to do so, and there was an immediate reply this time, that all of them heard plainly.
“He’s coming this way, I do believe, for that was closer than before. Shall I give him another call?”
“Yes, it can do no harm, and we must know the truth, at any rate.”
When the next answer came back it was beyond all doubt nearer than any that had preceded it.
“Oh! we shall soon see him!” cried Roger, fixing his eyes on the spot, as near as he could calculate, whence that last reply had come. “Now, keep watching, both of you, while I signal to him again that the coast is clear.”
He added one more tremulous trill to his notes; to his astonishment the answer was so plain and clear that it seemed to come straight out of a pine tree not more than twenty-five yards away.
“Why, he must be back of that tree, I think!” stammered Roger, uneasily, for he realized that Jasper Williams could never have gained such a Position without some of their eyes detecting his advance.
Just then a bird flew out of the pine and alighted in another at some distance away in another quarter. Dick himself instantly gave the signal whistle, and there came an immediate answer; but it was now from the quarter whither the bird had flown.
Roger gave a cry of disgust, while Dick laughed softly.
“Good-by to Jasper this time, I’m afraid, Roger!” he said.
“How mean that was for a silly little bird to have the same whistle Jasper had made up as his signal,” said Roger, looking downcast. “Come, there’s no use in our staying here any longer. If that bird keeps on whistling I might feel like using my gun to bring it down, for I’d think it was mocking me.”
“The poor thing thought a mate was calling,” Dick assured him; “or else some other male bird that wanted to fight it. I warrant you, it is just as upset as you can be over the mistake.”
They pushed on once more, and inside of two hours had come upon at least seven more geysers, some of which were spouting, while others were quiet at the time the three pilgrims happened to find the craters.
Now and then the boys would converse in low tones, for Dick knew that this was the best way to keep his companion’s spirits from drooping.
When other things failed, Dick could always interest him by referring to the wonderful luck that had befallen them, in giving them a chance to stay all winter at the Mandan village with the exploring expedition, so as to go on into the Golden West when spring came around.
The uncertainty that lay ahead seemed to appeal to the spirit of adventure that lay deep down in the hearts of the young pioneers.
“When we break camp in the spring and leave here,” Dick went on, as though he had mapped it out in his mind, “we will have to head into the Northwest, Captain Lewis told me.”
“Why go that way instead of straight into the West, or turn toward the Southwest?” Roger asked him, just as Dick knew he would be likely to do.
“It seems that the two captains have been picking up all the information they can from every source,” Dick explained; “and this, when boiled down, causes them to believe there is a better opening over the great Rocky Mountain chain up there than in any other quarter. Besides, I believe they have an idea there is a great river that flows to the sea, the headwaters of which start in the land of the Blackfeet.”
“He must have gotten some of that information from the Blackfoot prisoner the Mandans have in their strong lodge?” suggested Roger, quickly.
“I believe he did,” Dick told him. “I happen to know that both the captains and an interpreter spent many hours with the Blackfoot. And I also heard that they had promised to take the man back to his people with them in the spring; for they were giving the Mandans some presents to coax them to turn him over to them.”
“Oh! just to think, Dick, what it will mean to us, if we are with them when they first set eyes on the big water! Our parents came from the far East, where they knew the Atlantic Ocean; and, if we could only see the other, what a feather it would be in our caps when we got back home.”
Dick had accomplished his purpose, for his cousin showed his old-time enthusiasm again. So they continued to converse as they followed Mayhew, who strode along in advance, constantly on the alert for some new and startling sight, and not at all pleased with his surroundings.
It was after noon had come and gone that he uttered a cry that the boys understood as a command to halt. Each clutched his gun in the manner of those who know the value of being ready.
“Look away off yonder, up on the low ridge!” said the guide, eagerly.
“Moving figures, and of men at that!” ejaculated Roger.
“Indians, I take it,” said Dick; “for I can see the feathers in their hair, and the sun seems to glisten from their painted bodies. They must be on the warpath, to have put the paint on, and the feathers, too.”
“But look, Dick, there is one of them who wears clothes like a white trapper or borderman!” declared the excited Roger. “Do you see what I mean, Dick?”
“Yes, it certainly looks that way,” answered the other boy, shading his eyes with his hand in order to see better. “It is a white man, too, for he is wearing some kind of fur cap, and his hunting shirt is fringed like our own. There, he turned his face this way then, and he is no Indian, I am as certain as that my name is Dick Armstrong!”
“Now they have gone!” said Roger, as the figures, outlined against the sky, vanished behind some outcropping rock.
“Yes, and they seemed to be starting down the side of the ridge toward us, as near as I could see,” Dick declared, nor did the guide dispute the assertion.
“Could that have been our friend Jasper Williams?” demanded Roger, voicing the vague hope that was pounding at his own heart door.
“He was too far away for us to make sure, one way or another,” admitted Dick.
“But he seemed to be of about the same build; and, Dick, you could see nothing to prove that it was any one else, could you?”
“No, only that he was in the company of Indians,” and Dick shook his head in a way that spoke of considerable doubt.
“But then,” argued Roger, “they might be friendly Mandans, or Sioux, or even some of these Sheep-eaters we’ve heard about, who live in certain sections of the Wonderland in brush shacks.” (Note 6.)
“Yes, that might be true, for they were too far away for us to tell from the feathers in their scalp-locks what tribe they belonged to,” the other boy admitted.
“And the last thing we heard about Jasper, from Hardy and Mordaunt, was that he was being chased by Blackfoot Indians,” Roger continued.
“Well,” Dick explained, “this white man was no prisoner, for I saw him point ahead at something, which would mean that his arms were not fastened.”
“We know that Williams is a remarkable man,” mused Roger, “and, even if those braves were of the fierce Blackfoot tribe, he might have managed in some way to have made them his friends. I know it doesn’t sound reasonable, but Jasper knows Indian character better than any white man we ever met.”
“If he could do that he would be a magician.”
“So he would,” admitted the other boy, reluctantly; “but what are we going to do about it, Dick?”
“There is nothing for us but to wait and see,” came the reply. “They acted as though heading in this direction. If you asked me about our best move I’d say, hide and watch. If it turned out to be Jasper we could call out; on the other hand, if it were one of these French trappers, who are hand in glove with the Blackfoot Indians, we needn’t let them know we are around.”
“But do you think they noticed us?” asked the other boy.
“That is more than I can say. I saw nothing to indicate it; but these redskins are so tricky they would hide it, even if they knew, and were watching us out of the tail of their eyes.”
“Let us hide, and see!” Mayhew said just then, showing that he approved of Dick’s scheme.
Looking around, they quickly decided where it would be best to conceal themselves. The ground was so rough and uneven that there were plenty of places that had an inviting look. Mayhew selected a patch of bushes as a retreat, and in another minute they were crouching under this shelter.
Although most of the leaves were off the bushes, they grew so densely that it would require something more than a casual glance in that direction to betray the fact that several figures lurked there.
They heard many different sounds, for silence was hardly ever present in this land of the spouting wells, which roared and hissed and spluttered as they shot up their steaming fountains toward the heavens. There was almost constantly a fretful murmur in the air that might suddenly turn into a whining shriek or a dull roar.
A low exclamation from Mayhew announced that his trained vision had detected some sort of movement, far or near.
“What is it?” demanded Roger, on the right of the guide.
“They are coming!” was the answer.
“Tell us where, that we may see also,” the other urged.
“Then turn this way, and look between those two leaning trees,” said the guide. “But be careful that you move slowly. It is the quick actions that catch the suspicious eye of an Injun.”
“Oh! now I can see them plainly,” whispered Roger. “They are heading straight for us!”
“Blackfoot warriors for a certainty!” Dick muttered.
“Can you see the white man plainly, Dick?” asked Roger, impatiently.
“Not just yet,” came the reply. “He must be back among some of the Indians who hide him. But we will soon know what to expect. Keep watching.”
Almost immediately Roger himself gave a grunt. It sounded as though bitter chagrin was connected with the sound.
“There, I saw him plainly, Dick,” he whispered, “and it isn’t Jasper Williams at all. The man is a Frenchman, unless my eyes deceive me, and I ought to know what one of them looks like.”
“I believe it is none other than our old enemy, François Lascelles!” Dick said in the ear of his cousin; a bit of information that must have given poor Roger a strange thrill, for he could not have imagined any more discouraging news.
“Oh! what if he runs across us here?”
“We would have to fight for our lives, I fear. That man hates all our family about as bitterly as I’ve heard my father say another Frenchman named Jacques Larue once did.”
“But see how many there are of the Indians; a full dozen or more. They look as fierce as any braves I ever saw. I hope they pass by, and fail to notice us.”
“Keep still, Roger, they are getting too close now for us to talk, even in whispers. Be ready for the worst, even while hoping for the best. That is the Armstrong motto, you know. ’Sh!”
Roger fixed himself so that he could see everything that went on without making the slightest movement. He knew those keen eyes of the red sons of the forest were quick to detect a suspicious movement, no matter how slight, and that, if he so much as lifted his hand, discovery would follow.
The Indians were coming forward in a string, or what the trappers of that day called “Indian file,” one stepping in the footprints of the brave ahead of him. In this fashion it would be difficult for any enemy on finding their trail to know whether three or twenty had passed. It was a piece of Indian cunning, and a part of their nature, since it could hardly have been undertaken for any particular reason at this time.
They were heading directly toward the copse, but, since it would offer a bar to their progress, they might turn aside when it was reached.
The boys almost held their breath as they watched the approach of those fierce-looking Blackfeet. Up to then the brave who was held a prisoner in the Mandan village had been the only member of this noted tribe they had seen at close quarters. (Note 7.)
They were all picked men, if one could judge from their appearance; they were lithe, active as cats, alert, and at the same time muscular. Those swelling bronzed arms could doubtless paddle a dugout or a skin canoe at tremendous speed. Among them there must be braves who had won an enviable reputation for speed at foot races; or, it might be, renown as long distance runners, capable of keeping on the trail at a dog-trot for days and nights at a time.
It was therefore with considerable respect, and not a little anxiety as well, that Dick and Roger watched them coming nearer.
Of course they took note of the white man, too. He was a bold-looking adventurer, such as most of those French traders of the early century were, dashing in appearance, and with a certain air of recklessness about him, such as might be expected in those who daily took their lives in their hands and faced unknown perils in a wilderness that was almost a complete mystery to white men of the day.
François Lascelles had entered largely into the lives of these two boys, even though their opportunities to see the wily and unscrupulous French trader had been few, up to then, and mostly at their home, where he visited to talk business with their parents.
If they had not liked his looks at that time he certainly presented a far less prepossessing appearance now that he was away from all the outposts of civilization and saw no need to repress the tiger element in his nature.
To himself Dick was saying:
“That man would stop at nothing in order to have his own way. If ever we had the bad luck to fall into his power we could not expect any mercy, I am sure. And, if Jasper Williams is now in his hands, nothing can save him, unless we are fortunate enough to be able to come to his rescue.”
This far Dick had arrived in his train of thought when he received a sudden and severe shock. Mayhew had managed to give his foot a slight kick, as though to call his attention to something that was going on out in the open. Dick hardly required this signal to pay attention, for he had already seen what was happening.
The Indians were no longer pushing forward as before. The one in the lead had suddenly stopped up; and he must have given vent to some exclamation that acted like magic on the rest, for every one had halted as though controlled by a single wire.
They seemed to be gathering around their leader, who was pointing excitedly to the ground, as though he had made an important discovery.
Mayhew grunted very softly, but the sound lost none of its significance on account of being so gently emitted. As for Dick, he did not need to be told what it was the Blackfoot had found; for, like a flash, it came to him that he and his companions had headed toward the clump of bushes from that very spot.
The sharp eyes of the leading brave had discovered their trail! It had been a fatal blunder, their neglecting to cover this up in some manner, although, at the time, it might have seemed as though there was not one chance in a thousand the hostiles would come that way.
No one moved, even though they must have felt hot and cold by turns, as the terrible result of the discovery flashed before their minds. The Indians were jabbering together in excited tones, though what they were saying the boys could only guess, since they knew nothing of the Blackfoot tongue.
The white trader was apparently as curious as any of the dusky braves in his company. He even dropped down on his hands and knees, the better to examine the footprints. Of course it would be patent to them that the tracks were made by white men.
What would be the result? Would they surmise that the three daring invaders of the Evil Manitou’s Wonderland, the forge where he made all his thunderbolts, must be secreted near by? Could they read that those tracks had just been made, since blades of brown grass were still springing up after being pressed down?
Perhaps Lascelles even knew that Dick and Roger were searching for Jasper Williams! He seemed to be superhuman when it came to learning things that were supposed to be secret. And, if that were so, then it was indeed a gloomy outlook that faced the pioneer boys.
Dick could only catch his breath and watch to see what would happen next; that, and grip his gun tighter in his hands as he crouched waiting for the explosion. He knew their presence in the copse was suspected, for the trader was even then pointing straight at the patch of bushes, and saying something to his red companions.
Flight was out of the question, for the boys could hardly hope to excel those fleet-footed Indian braves, however successful Mayhew might have proved.
Indeed, there was little time given to any of them to think of escape. When the wily French trader had conveyed his suspicions to some of the Blackfoot braves there was a concerted dash toward the clump of bushes.
Some of the Indians started to circle around, evidently in the expectation that, if the whites were concealed, they would attempt flight, and the idea of these runners was to forestall any such dash.
“We must hold them back or all is lost!” exclaimed Mayhew, who, being an experienced Indian fighter, doubtless knew the weak and strong points of the red men, no matter to what tribe they belonged.
The report of his long-barreled rifle followed his words almost instantly. There could be no question but that his bullet found its billet, for Mayhew was a crack shot.
Roger strained his eyes to discover the form of Lascelles among those rushing straight toward the bushes, but he looked in vain. The shrewd Frenchman must have suspected that he would be a shining mark for the concealed riflemen, and hence he had discreetly taken shelter behind a convenient tree trunk, from whence he could observe all that went on, and be ready to appear after the battle was over. Failing to see Lascelles, Roger took hasty aim at the nearest Indian and fired, but apparently missed.
Dick had not thought about trying for the trader; indeed, it might have been the most foolish thing Roger could have done, since the Indians, if successful, would probably dispatch the boys without hesitation, unless there was a restraining hand put out to prevent it.
The tricky warriors came leaping and dodging to the attack, so that it was not the easiest thing in the world to hit such an eccentric target. When Dick fired he felt sure he had not missed, and yet his intended victim failed to fall, though he did act as though wounded.
The guns being now empty the boys drew their pistols. These of course were of the same construction, being furnished with flint locks. It required considerable knack to be able to discharge such a weapon. The powder had to be shaken afresh into the pan, or there would be no explosion after the flint and steel had come violently in contact. Then, unless the connection were assured through the minute hole, it would result only in a flash in the pan, instead of the weapon doing its full duty.
Roger, always more careless than Dick, snapped his pistol in vain, for there was no report. Perhaps it was just as well, since, in the end, one enemy more or less would have made very little difference.
By this time the Indians were upon them, and each one of the little party found himself in the midst of a whirling force that frustrated all their wild efforts to strike with knife or hatchet.
From a point close at hand a shrill voice was screaming orders in the Indian tongue. François had come to life suddenly, after making sure that the whites could no longer cover him with their fire-arms. He was ordering his red minions not to finish the three palefaces, if they expected to obtain the reward he had promised them.
All this the boys heard as in a dream. They were so furiously engaged at the time, it was little attention they paid to anything that was going on. To avoid the savage blows aimed at them by dusky hands that gripped stone tomahawks, was about as much as they could manage. It was only later on, when they had a chance to exchange views concerning the fight, that they reached such a conclusion.
Such an unequal contest could not last long. Dick and Roger were pulled to the ground by the many hands that gripped them. Struggling to the bitter end, they expected that some one of their red antagonists would finish them with a fell sweep of those flourished tomahawks; indeed, Dick shut his eyes in anticipation of such a tragedy, and before his inward vision there flashed one glimpse of the dear ones in the far distant home on the bank of the Missouri.
But the blow did not fall. He could hear the excited voice of Lascelles haranguing the braves, and, opening his eyes again, Dick found that the French trader had interposed his arm between the threatening weapons and the two boys.
Just what François was saying to his allies Dick could not tell, since he knew little of Indian talk, and nothing at all of the Blackfoot language. He could, of course, guess that Lascelles, for some reason of his own, did not wish the boys slain. It could hardly have been pity that influenced the trader, for he was a cruel man.
Dick became aware of several other things just then. One was that Roger was keeping up his vain struggling, despite the fact that a couple of brawny braves were sitting on him.
“Keep still, Roger,” commanded Dick, realizing that the impulsive lad was imperiling both of their lives by his senseless actions; “you can never break away, and by keeping up that fighting you may force them to knock us on the head. We are prisoners, and there is no help for it.”
Roger stopped his writhing and beating with his fists, though the fact that he had to yield to the inevitable forced a groan from his lips.
“Where is Mayhew?” asked Dick, noting that the scout did not seem to be near.
Before Roger could frame any sort of a reply they heard a series of yells from a little distance, followed by a shot.
“He must have managed to break away, Dick,” exclaimed Roger, when he could get rid of the dirt that impeded his speaking; “and some of the Indians have followed after him. Oh, I hope he has not been killed!”
“That didn’t sound like it,” Dick told him. “There was a deal of baffled fury in those Indian yells. Mayhew may get clear away, after all. He has no equal as a runner among all the men of the expedition.”
There was no time to say more, nor were the conditions by which the two boys were surrounded of a nature to invite conversation.
Lascelles had apparently convinced those of the Indians who seemed most bent on finishing the white boys that it would be more to their advantage to hold them as prisoners or hostages, for reluctantly they dropped their uplifted weapons. That more than one of them did this under protest could be seen from the manner in which they eyed the prisoners, and shook their feather bedecked heads.
“Get up, you American swine!” said Lascelles, accompanying his remark with a kick from the toe of his moccasin.
As there was no longer a weight on his chest Roger sprang to his feet as though he had been shot up by a gigantic spring. His face was white with anger, and he would have leaped straight at the throat of the insulting French trader, despite the fact of Lascelles holding a leveled pistol in front of him, only that Dick seized hold and held him back.
“You are crazy to think of that, Roger! Have some sense. Think of those at home, and do nothing to force his hand!”
It was a terrible task for the hot-blooded boy to subside. He gave Lascelles a look that spoke volumes, but which only caused the Frenchman to grin in pleasure, for he had no idea that these boys would ever be given the chance to turn the tables on him.
Neither of the boys had been badly hurt in the fierce scrimmage, though scratches and minor cuts were in evidence, and they looked the worse for wear. Deprived of every weapon, they were helpless in the midst of that circle of hostile Blackfeet, and could only grit their teeth and give back look for look in a resolute fashion.
Lascelles stood before them, with folded arms, and a sneer on his dark face. From a point still more remote there came again those yells of baffled rage to tell that the skillful Mayhew must still be eluding his pursuers.
“So, zis is ze young Armstrongs zat I haf ze pleasure to entertain?” the trader started to say, as though he had a communication to make which he fancied would add still more to their wretchedness, and it was necessary to first of all “break the ice.”
“Yes, we are the Armstrong boys, and you are François Lascelles,” replied Dick. “What business have you trying to make us prisoners? We are not interfering with these Indians in their hunting grounds. The last time we saw you it was at the cabin of our grandfather, David Armstrong. Why do you not order these warriors to set us free? We will go back to the camp from which we came, and they will not see us again.”
“Eet is not to be as you wish, but as I say,” the Frenchman observed, with a pompous inflation of his chest, as became a victor. “I haf you in my power, and zat ees vat I am here for. Eef you evair return to ze home again eet vill not be until ze winter is gone. Zen eet vill be too late to take ze leetle paper to zose zat sit by ze fireside, and wait day by day for you to come back!”
At hearing this Dick felt considerable relief. Perhaps, after all, the Frenchman was not quite so bad a man as he had believed. He spoke as though there might be a possibility of their being kept prisoners through the winter, and set free in the spring, when it was no longer possible for them to reach home before the time limit had expired, and their parents ousted from their property.
That would mean that long months must elapse. They might even be taken to the Blackfoot village, leagues and leagues away, but there would always remain a chance for escape. Dick was a firm believer in the old motto that “while there’s life there’s hope.”
“You know why we are here in this strange land, then?” he remarked, chiefly to draw the other out, so that something might be learned concerning the whereabouts of Jasper Williams.
“Yes, eet is all plain to me vy you come here,” Lascelles assured him, nodding as he spoke. “I haf made sure zat ze paper you could nevaire secure. I haf already ze Williams a prisoner in anuzzer camp, vere my son Alexis and ze brave French comrades zay watch heem like ze weasel.”
“You mean that Jasper Williams is a prisoner, do you?” asked Dick, while Roger listened eagerly, trying to read the grinning countenance of Lascelles, and determine whether he was speaking the truth, or concocting a lie for some evil purpose.
“Zat ees vat I am saying,” continued Lascelles; “I haf arranged zat he may be taken to ze village of Black Otter, and adopted into ze tribe. Ze big chief haf long wished to haf ze white man show zem many things zat zey do not know. Williams nevaire come back from ze Blackfoot country. Eet is many days’ journey into ze cold Northwest, and no white man has ever seen the wigwams of Black Otter.”
“But what will you do with us; I hope you will not send us with the Blackfeet also?” asked Dick, still seeking information.
“I haf not yet made up my mind, but pouf! vat does it matter to me? So zat you may not send ze word down to ze town on zat Missouri I care not vat becomes of ze Armstrong vermin. I haf Williams, and now both ends zey are tied up. Zat ees well!”
“You will have to prove it before I believe Williams is your prisoner!” said Dick.
“Ah! zat ees easy,” retorted the Frenchman; “you haf seen zis knife in hees possession, it may be. Do you not recognize eet? Williams think so much of zat knife he would not let it leave hees person. But I haf eet here. So you see zere ees ze proof zat he ees a prisoner in zat uzzer camp.”