“Do you believe him, Dick?” asked Roger, huskily, after the French trader had turned his back on them, and the Indians busied themselves binding the hands of their captives behind their backs, using deerskin thongs for the purpose.
“I’m afraid it must be so,” replied Dick. “I happen to know about that knife, and have heard Williams say he prized it above anything he possessed. It has saved his life more than once, I understand.”
“Then if you recognized the knife it would mean that he is a prisoner like ourselves,” admitted Roger, with a long-drawn sigh.
“We may be taken to where he is being kept,” the other told him.
“They say misery likes company.”
“Oh! you must never give in like that. I tell you it is bound to come out right in the end, though things may look dark just now. Such a bad man could not win out ultimately. Do as I am doing and refuse to allow yourself to think such a thing can happen.”
“I try to—honestly I do, Dick; but what hope have we now? Here we are in the power of that rascal, who means to see to it that we do not get free until spring, and even then he may leave us to our fate. And, as if that were not enough, Jasper Williams, the only one who can save our parents’ homes, is a prisoner and will be sent into the wilderness, never to be seen again.”
Dick could understand what a weight rested on the mind of his cousin. Was he not himself fighting against the same depression, and conquering it only because he would not give in?
“Listen, Roger,” he said, impressively, “there is only one way for us to win this fight, and that is by making up our minds nothing can ever best us. Brace up, and shut your teeth together in the old way.”
“Forgive me for giving in so soon; you are curing me fast now. I already feel that things are never so dark but that they might be worse.”
“Much worse,” Dick told him, resolutely. “Whenever you feel your knees beginning to get weak under you, just shut your eyes and see father, mother and little Mary sitting by the fireside at home. It will do wonders. I know, for I have often tried it myself.”
By this time the Indians had finished binding their arms behind them. Evidently they expected to go to some other place to camp.
The day was not far from its close. Dick wondered whether they were to be taken to the place where Jasper Williams was being held prisoner. Lascelles had said it was a camp where his son Alexis and some other Frenchmen were in charge, showing that he must wield considerable influence over the warlike Blackfeet.
There was nothing to indicate what the result of the pursuit of Mayhew had been, up to the time they started forth. This in itself gave the boys a faint hope the guide might have eluded his pursuers. They had considerable faith in Mayhew, and believed that he would not desert them.
Still, what could one man do against such a legion of enemies, and especially when in almost as much fear of the wonders of that enchanted region as the superstitious Indians themselves?
Some of the Indians walked ahead, while others brought up the rear, once they started. Dick was curious enough to take note of the course they pursued. He had a dogged faith to believe that sooner or later he would want to know something about this ground, for he hoped to tread it again on the return journey to the explorers’ camp.
It was, he found, a difficult task to keep track of their passage. This was chiefly caused by the meanderings of the Indians. Whenever they fancied they were approaching one of the spouting wells, with its steam column, and its roaring voice, they would sheer off to one side, and circle around it.
All this made their course an eccentric one, and Dick found it beyond his power to figure it out. All he could do was to note the general direction in which they were heading, and store it away in his memory for future use.
Roger was close enough to him to allow of an occasional interchange of remarks. Their captors seemed to pay no attention to what they were saying; and of course none of them understood a word of it, so the boys saw no need of restricting themselves when discussing their hopes and fears.
“I believe they intend to camp before long,” Dick said presently, as they continued to move along through the pine-clad side of the slope that rose to form a foothill to the mountain chain further away.
“But the sun is only setting, and these Indians never get tired, so what makes you think they will halt?” Roger asked, himself very weary.
“But Lascelles is not anxious to keep going when there is no need,” explained the other prisoner. “I saw him point out a spot to the tall Indian at his side, who must be a sub-chief from the feathers in his scalp-lock, and the bears’ claws he carries about his neck. The Indian shook his head, and pointed ahead, as if he meant that he knew of a much better place to spend the night.”
“I hope there’s a bubbling spring there, and that it’s ice-cold,” ventured Roger, “for I’m dry as a bone, and somehow most of the water up here is luke-warm, when it isn’t nearly boiling.”
“There was that one place we struck,” Dick remarked, “where a cold stream ran so close to one of the hot pools that I really believe you could catch a trout in the one, give it a swing over your head, and drop it in the other so it would be cooked without being taken off the hook.”
“I can see what the folks at home will do and say when you tell that yarn,” observed Roger, with a faint chuckle, as though for the moment he had forgotten their predicament.
“Look, there are three other Indians waiting for us by that dead tree!” Dick suddenly exclaimed.
“One of them is wounded in the shoulder, too!” remarked Roger. “Oh! Dick, can those be the men who pursued Mayhew?”
“I was just thinking about that myself,” returned the other; “and, now that you ask me, I must say I believe they are. That one certainly has been struck by a bullet. See how crudely they have bandaged the wound. If they would let me try my hand I could do a heap better.”
“Suppose you tell that to Lascelles,” suggested Roger, quickly. “It might make us friends among the Indians, and goodness knows we need them. Besides, I never liked to see even an Indian suffer.”
“I remember hearing my father tell how, long years ago, when they were living up on the bank of the Ohio, they found a young Indian badly wounded, and took him into their camp to nurse. Some of the settlers, who believed that every Indian was a snake in the grass, wanted to put him to death, but father and uncle had their way, and Blue Jacket’s life was spared.”
“Yes,” added Roger, “and ever afterwards he was the best friend the settlers had. Why, he even followed our parents most of the way down to the Mississippi, when they descended the Ohio River on a flatboat. And then another time, you remember, they won the good will of the great Indian chief, Pontiac, by saving his life.”
“That is a fact, Roger; and he gave them a wampum belt that kept them from the fury of the Indian ever afterwards. Some people may not think it pays to befriend an Indian, but we have been taught differently.”
When the three Indians joined the main column Dick tried to ascertain whether they had been successful in their pursuit of Mayhew, or had met with failure.
He knew it would be folly to try to obtain this information through the wily Frenchman, who, wishing to add to their distress, would very likely boast that the frontiersman had been brought down.
Dick, however, quickly made up his mind that this could not be the case. The sullen manner of the three braves was enough in itself to tell the story of their having been outwitted by Mayhew. Then, besides, if they had slain the hunter they would be shouting of victory and holding up a freshly taken scalp in evidence.
“Depend on it, our friend got away,” Dick told Roger.
“I was thinking that myself,” returned the other, “for they look mad enough to bite a nail in two, if they knew what such a thing was.”
For some little time they marched along steadily. Then the important-looking Indian, who was walking alongside Lascelles, turned, and called out something in his own language.
“Good! we are going to stop at last!” muttered Roger. “I can hear the tinkling of a running brook close by. I hope the water is good and cold, and that they let me drink my fill.”
There was no doubt about it, for the Indians no longer kept pushing forward. To make a camp, when far from home, was an easy matter for these hardy braves, accustomed, as they were, to enduring all manner of hardships with the stoicism that has always distinguished their race.
There were no tents to erect, no packs to undo, and getting the meal was a most primitive operation, since it would probably consist of cooking some sort of meat by thrusting it in the flames at the end of long sticks of wood.
When some of the braves started to fasten the prisoners to two trees that grew close together, Dick thought it about time to begin making friends. Accordingly he called to Lascelles to approach, as he had a communication to make that might strike him favorably.
“I have had some success in binding up gun-shot wounds,” Dick told him, “and if I was given a chance I believe I could do that poor fellow some good. He may bleed to death unless something is done.”
The wily Frenchman eyed him keenly.
“Zat sounds very good, but how am I to know zat you vill not try to escape if ze bonds zey are remove?” he demanded suspiciously.
“I will give you my promise not to attempt anything of the sort as long as my hands are free,” Dick assured him. “Besides, it would be folly to try to run away when you have your gun, and they their bows and arrows handy. Come, loosen my hands and let me see what I can do.”
Lascelles made sure to get the consent of the chief before he would touch the thongs, but he finally did so. Some of the Indians, learning that the paleface boy was a medicine man among his people, watched with some interest to see how he treated the wound of their companion.
Dick had in truth been unusually successful in handling this particular form of injury, and knew about how it should be treated. He had scant material with which to work, but his deft fingers made up in part for the want of other things.
The salve which he produced from his ditty bag was home-made, for his mother knew all about medicinal herbs and their values.
When, after completing the job, Dick looked up into the face of his “patient” and asked how it felt, while the brave may not have understood the exact words, at the same time he must have guessed the nature of the inquiry, for he nodded his head in the affirmative as though to admit that his condition had been made much more bearable.
“Now you have got a job on your hands!” sang out Roger, as he saw the other wounded warriors pressing forward, as though meaning to have their hurts looked after in the same fashion.
Dick was satisfied that this was not an effort thrown away. If he could make the Blackfeet understand that white men were not the unfeeling monsters they had been painted by the French fur-traders it would be a good thing. Besides, they knew not what their future might be, and the time was likely to come when a friend in the Indian camp would prove a profitable investment. (Note 8.)
“We ought to call this camp Armstrong Hospital, I think!” said Roger, after it was all finished, and Dick had been secured to his tree near by.
“I hope my work wasn’t wholly wasted,” remarked Dick. “As they have built a fire it seems settled that we are to stay here to-night. Perhaps to-morrow they mean to take us to the other camp, where Lascelles said Williams is held a prisoner.”
“And on my part,” added the other captive, “I hope they will give us some of the meat they’ve started to cook. When I can catch his eye I want to ask Lascelles to get me a drink of water. My tongue seems to be sticking to the roof of my mouth.”
“If we could make one of the wounded Indians understand, I think they would do a little thing like that for us; but the Frenchman seems to be scowling blackly at me just now. Perhaps, after all, he is sorry about letting me dress the wounds of the braves; he may suspect that I’m getting too popular, and that it may somehow hurt his game in the end.”
“Who knows how that may work out?” declared Roger. “One thing is sure, we must keep our wits about us, and try to figure out a way to get free.”
Dick seemed to be of the same mind, for he nodded his head, and said:
“If we have half a chance we must try to escape to-night. That Canadian scout in the explorers’ camp, Drewyer, knows considerable about these Blackfoot Indians, and he told me they are very treacherous, often killing their captives as they take a freak, or the medicine man of the tribe has a pretended message from Manitou that they must be put to death. So we dare not trust them, but must escape by any means.”
Apparently it was not the design of Lascelles to starve his prisoners, for later on he had them untied, and gave them a chance to devour some of the crudely cooked buffalo meat. They were also permitted to drink their fill of the cold water in the brook.
After all this had been done, with the trader watching them constantly, and holding his gun in readiness to frustrate any attempt at escape, the boys were once more tied with long thongs to the trees.
They noticed, however, that the brave who fastened them was inclined to be much more gentle with them than on the first occasion. Dick believed the seed of kindness he had sown was commencing to take root.
“It will be a night that we shall never forget, Dick,” Roger remarked. “If it blows up windy and cold, as it was when we were in the cave, we will suffer terribly here.”
“Let us hope then that we may not be here all night long,” Dick ventured; and somehow his manner, as well as his words, caused the blood of his companion to leap in his veins.
“Do you really mean it?” Roger asked. “Is there a chance that we can break loose, tied up as we are? Are you depending on Mayhew to come to our rescue? Surely, you could not have had any signal from him?”
“Nothing,” replied the other. “But have you noticed where they put our guns and powder horns?”
“I must say I hadn’t thought much about that part of it,” confessed Roger; “but, since you mention it, I think they are over against that tree. The Indians are afraid of firearms, you know. Perhaps the chief Lascelles spoke to us about, and whom he called Black Otter, hopes to force Williams into teaching him how to use ‘the sticks that spit out fire and stinging things.’”
“There is another thing that, perhaps, I ought to tell you,” continued Dick, in a low tone. He saw the Frenchman looking over at them just then, as though wondering what they were finding to talk about, and debating whether it might not be safer to separate the pair.
“If it’s anything that will make me feel more cheerful, I hope you will lose no time in doing so,” Roger hastened to say.
“Please keep from showing so much in your face then,” Dick told him; “or that man may be able to read the whole story from where he sits. Act as though we were without the first ray of hope. He is a suspicious sort of man. We must try to make him believe we mean to make the best of it.”
“Now tell me, Dick; I am looking as if I’d lost my last friend. What has happened? I am sure you have made some discovery.”
“Oh! not so very great,” replied Dick; “only that I believe I can get my hands free with very little effort.”
“How does that happen?” wondered Roger; “mine are as tight as they can well be. Did that Indian favor you when he fastened us up the last time; or was it through an accident?”
“Neither one nor the other, it happens,” said the second prisoner, coolly. “I remembered to swell up my wrists in a way I can do, when he was putting the thongs around them. By reducing them to the utmost, my hands are almost free, and it will take but little effort for me to free them entirely.”
“And then you can set me loose, too, though I am afraid it will take you a long time to get those knots undone. It must be an Indian way of tying thongs, for I never saw its like before.”
“There is a better way than that,” Dick assured him. “Don’t turn your head just now to look, because Lascelles is watching us like a hawk; but some time later on, when his back is this way, cast your eyes to the right, and, sticking in the tree not more than five feet away, you will see my hunting knife!”
“Oh! how came it there?” demanded Roger, watching the French trader, and ready to take advantage of the fact if Lascelles should happen to look away, even for a moment.
“I saw a brave give it a jab into the tree when he was cutting some thongs from a strip of buckskin before we were tied up; and ever since I have watched to see if any one removed it. So far, it has remained there.”
The Indians had by this time settled down to take things as comfortably as conditions allowed. The fire was sending out considerable heat, and around the cheery blaze the red men squatted, each with his gaudy-colored blanket about his shoulders. Some of them were scantily clad for the wintry season, though doubtless it did not occur to them in that light, as they had become habituated to exposure.
The two boys looked at the picture presented. They would, if they were fortunate enough to live through the experience, often recall it in future days, and, it was to be hoped, under happier skies.
High the sparks soared from the fire, with the red tongues of flame jumping up as though in riotous sport. The bending tops of the neighboring pines seemed to be whispering together as though communicating the secrets of the wilderness. It was all so strange and wonderful, even after the remarkable sights they had looked on of late, that Roger asked himself whether it could be real, or only a dream.
Several of the Blackfeet had produced red clay pipes and were smoking some weed that, for all the boys could tell, may have been tobacco, cured after their own tribal fashion.
“I only wish I could put something in that stuff to make them sleep like logs until dawn,” said Roger.
“They are beginning to show signs of getting drowsy,” Dick assured him. “Already several have curled up in their blankets, and seem to be fast asleep. Here comes the Frenchman to take a last look at us before he follows them into dreamland.”
“Oh! be careful that he may not learn of the trick you played with your bonds!” Roger whispered, in sudden alarm lest the crafty trader make a discovery that would destroy the hope they were hugging to their hearts.
“Leave that to me, for I feel sure I can deceive him, even if he tries my bonds to see how secure they are,” Dick assured him.
Apparently Lascelles was very sleepy, for he yawned several times as he felt of the thongs, to see how they had been tied by the brave to whom the task had been delegated.
“Eet is too bad zat you haf to stand all ze night,” he told the boys; “but eet cannot be helped. Eet is ze fortune of war. Ven boys try to play ze part of men zey must take ze good wif ze bad. In ze morning, unless ze storm delay us, we vill hope to reach ze uzzer camp, and then you see heem.”
He walked away after delivering himself of these few remarks. The boys knew very well who was meant by “heem,” for it could only refer to Jasper Williams.
“That sounds as if he has Jasper, sure enough,” remarked Roger, when they once more were by themselves.
“Yes, and if we get away from here it must be our duty to free him. We did it once before, you remember; and what was next door to a miracle then can happen again.”[5]
When another half-hour had crept around, conditions in the Indian camp had undergone a decided change. There had been no sentry set that the boys observed, and Dick had counted the Indians many times to make sure that all were around the fire. They lay sprawled in such postures as their fancy dictated. Some had their backs against the trunks of trees, while others extended themselves at full length on the ground.
One and all seemed to be sound asleep. Acting upon the advice of Dick, both of the boys had assumed an attitude calculated to deceive any one who might be sending an occasional glance in their direction, and make it appear as though they, too, had yielded to the demands of the slumber god.
“Is it time yet, Dick?” whispered Roger for the third time, when it seemed as if his blood had almost stopped circulating on account of the tight bonds, and he doubted his ability to use his legs, even if set free.
“Wait a little longer,” he was told, in the same cautious tone, which, if heard at all, would be considered but the murmur of the cool night breeze in the nodding pine-tops.
The half-hour lengthened to a full one; and even this was now growing, until it must soon measure a second hour. Roger could not stand it much longer. He felt as though something within him would burst unless he could make a move of some sort.
“Listen,” whispered Dick, just then, as if in answer to the silent plea, “I saw something move across on the other side of the camp. A hand seemed to gently wave to me, and it was not the hand of an Indian, either. I firmly believe Mayhew, Heaven bless him, has come back, taking his life in his hand, meaning to rescue us from the Indians.”
“That is good news, Dick!” whispered Roger.
“There, did you see him that time?” the other asked, as cautiously as though he believed every sleeping Indian possessed such keen hearing that a very small sound would awaken him.
“Yes, and I believe it must be Mayhew. Are you starting to work your hands free, Dick? Oh! lose no time, I beg!”
“It is nearly done,” came in a breath from the other; for all this time Dick had been working his hands as cleverly as he could, considering the fact that they had been tied behind him as he stood against the tree.
A slight movement on his part a minute later told the anxious Roger that he had finally succeeded in accomplishing his task. His hands were free, and wrestling with the knots in the thongs that bound his body to the tree.
When Roger presently saw his companion move, and then slowly sink down to the ground, he held his breath, for he knew that, so far as bonds were concerned, Dick was no longer a prisoner.
His next move would be to reach after that convenient knife, thrust into the tree close by. Roger turned his eyes in the other direction. His greatest fear now was that one of the sleeping braves might wake up, and spoil all their plans.
When he saw no sign of such a thing his heart beat a little less tumultuously, and he breathed freely once more. But it was a period of suspense Roger would never forget.
Even the slight sound made by a passing breeze struck a note of deadly fear in the heart of the waiting lad; it seemed to be a crash of thunder that would surely arouse the whole camp. Yet no one so much as stirred.
Dick had obtained the knife, it seemed. Roger could feel him at work. How it thrilled him to know that those painful bonds were about to fall away, leaving him free to stretch his arms, and his lower limbs, so dreadfully cramped during the hours that had passed since they tied him there.
Dick, crouching behind the tree, had to work in the dark, and mostly through instinct, his sense of touch taking the place of sight.
He was succeeding, at any rate, which must be reckoned the main thing. Roger knew when the stout deerskin rope that kept him rigid against the tree had been severed, for a hand instantly steadied him, lest he fall over.
There now remained only the bonds about his wrists, and they were apt to prove the most troublesome of all. What if the steel blade did give him several scratches and slight cuts? He could stand almost anything while hope of liberty swelled within him.
There, it was done at last! His hands fell limply at his sides, numb and almost useless, for they had been tied much tighter than in Dick’s case.
The friendly hand plucked at his sleeve. Dick meant this as a sign that they must be getting away without loss of time, since every second spent there meant additional risk of discovery.
It appeared a simple matter for Roger to copy the example of his comrade and drop to the ground, in order to crawl away; and yet, when he came to do it, he found that his knees were almost rigid, and could only be bent after a violent effort.
Dick must have planned everything beforehand. In times past he had shown himself to be a master hand at laying out plans to be pursued in emergencies, and while tied to the tree, observing all that went on in the Indian camp, he surely had had plenty of opportunities to note the conditions surrounding him.
At least he did not seem to be confused but went about the task of leading his companion to safety as though it were all a part of a schedule.
Dick had not quite understood the mute signals which Mayhew had made when moving his hand above the bushes; but it seemed as if he meant to let them know he was about to make his way to a point in their rear, where he might find a better opportunity to assist them.
Dick hoped they would have the good fortune to run across the guide. Three would be much better than two, surrounded as they were by so many perils.
When Roger became aware of the fact that his pilot had stopped abruptly, he felt a cold chill run over him, thinking it could only mean that the discovery they feared was upon them.
Then he realized that Dick was softly laying hands on some objects that had rested against a tree-trunk. Like a flash it dawned on Roger that they must be their guns, for he recollected it was exactly in this quarter they had noted the weapons.
What a wonderful fellow Dick was, apparently capable of remembering everything, no matter how minute the detail might be! Roger breathed easy again. He even managed to put out his hand and receive one of the guns from his comrade, accompanied by a low hiss of warning.
Roger knew what was meant by this, and he was very careful that his gun should not come in violent contact with the tree-trunk or the ground.
At that moment he chanced to look around, and what was his horror on discovering that one of the Indians had raised his head! He seemed to be looking straight at the two boys, and, as the flickering fire still gave a small amount of light, he must surely have seen them.
Roger wanted to let Dick know, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not make a sound. Dick was now moving off again, creeping along more like a great cat than a human being, so there was nothing left for Roger to do but follow in his wake.
Every moment he expected to hear a yell of alarm from the Indian who had been watching their movements. As each second passed, Roger was certain that the cry was bound to break forth with the coming of the next.
His feet dragged like lead, because he believed the attempt to escape was bound to be useless, and that they could not possibly get away. He counted the passage of time by the throbs of his heart.
Once a twig flew up and struck Roger on the knee. It was a blow as light as the falling of a leaf, yet to the boy it seemed as though a heavy hand had been suddenly laid upon him.
But, strangely enough, nothing happened! No yell rang out; nor was there an uprising of those dusky forms that lay about the smoldering fire. Foot by foot the ground was passed over, and in a brief time they might hope to gain the shelter of the friendly bushes back of which Mayhew, it was hoped, would be found.
Still Roger dared not believe the escape would be effected without an explosion of some sort. He knew that the pioneers classed all Indians with the cat tribe in regard to craftiness and cruelty. How many times had he, as a small lad, watched their pet cat catch a mouse, and then play with the doomed animal, letting it go just for the pleasure of pouncing on it afresh.
The conviction that pressed so heavily on his heart now was that this brave was simply waiting until the escaping prisoners had gained a certain point, when he would give the cry that would send the red inmates of the camp after them in hot haste.
But now they were at the fringe of bushes, and Dick had even commenced creeping around one end of the break, afraid to enter lest they cause a rustling that would imperil their safety.
Roger summoned all his nerve and looked back. To his amazement he saw that the watchful brave still had his head partly raised, and was, to all appearances, looking after them.
It was a mystery in the boy’s mind that ranked with those strange things they had continued to discover ever since invading this Land of Wonders. That the warrior saw them making their escape, and still refrained from giving the alarm, was a fact beyond his comprehension.
Dick was moving faster now, though still taking pains not to make any sound that could be possibly avoided. Then Roger caught the low, tremulous note of a bird, hardly more than a chirp. Was that Mayhew trying to let them know he was close by? Roger hoped so with all his heart.
He could barely see Dick’s bulk just ahead of him, and it was on it that he fastened his gaze. If the pilot suddenly came to a pause, Roger meant to be in a condition to instantly follow suit.
Whispering caught his ear. Surely Dick was not talking to himself, but must have come in contact with the creeping guide. All seemed going well, and, so far, there had been no alarm from the camp.
A minute later he knew that Dick was no longer on his hands and knees, but had gained his feet. This meant that the time had come when they might take more chances, and increase the swiftness of their flight.
Roger noted, too, that there was another figure ahead of his cousin, which he knew could be no other than the guide, gallant Mayhew, who had scorned to seek safety for himself while his young friends were in peril.
Far away could be heard the dismal howling of a wolf pack. An owl sent out a mournful hoot from the depths of the pine woods on the side of the mountain. But back there, where the dying camp fire flickered, and the red men slumbered, not a sound arose. Roger marveled more than ever. He knew that his eyes had not deceived him, and that the Indian had actually watched them making their escape. But what magic had rendered his tongue mute the boy could not guess.
When half a mile had been placed between them and the hostile camp Dick broke the silence.
“Do you think we are safe away, Mayhew?” he asked, cautiously.
“It looks that way,” replied the figure plodding ahead of the boys; “and I must say it beats all how you managed to get free from those deerskin thongs. There are other things that puzzle me, too; but all that can keep until later.
“Oh! I am glad to hear you say you believe we are well out of that fix!” exclaimed Roger, who had looked back nervously over his shoulder many times, and even shuddered at hearing the slightest rustling sound, dreading lest the tricky Indians might be creeping after them, and suddenly awaken the echoes of the pine forest with their war-whoops.
“It was one of the closest calls we ever had,” admitted Dick.
“And we have known a good many of them,” added Roger, with a slight return of his old feeling of elation, for the reaction was beginning to set in, so that from the depths of despair he would soon find himself elevated to the heights of exultation.
“One thing that none of us has thought to notice so far,” commented Dick, “is that it has at last commenced to snow as though it meant business.” When he brought this fact to their attention the others perceived that it was indeed so, for already the ground had begun to turn white.
For some time the three fugitives plodded through the pine forest that lay along the side of the mountain ridge, enclosing the wide valley in which the camp of the Indians had been pitched.
The snow was coming down in earnest now. It acted as though bent on making up for lost time; and, unless all signs failed, there would be an exceedingly heavy fall before they saw the sun again.
One comfort they found in this coming of the white mantle—they could not be tracked by Lascelles and his allies when their escape was discovered.
“Dick!” ventured Roger, after quite a long time had elapsed, and they found the snow getting constantly deeper underfoot.
“Well?”
“We have our guns, it is true, and that I count a fine thing, but of what use are they to us without our powder horns?”
“That was our misfortune, Roger, but we can borrow from Mayhew here. By being prudent we ought to make his supply go around.”
Imagine the feelings of the two boys when the guide gave utterance to an exclamation of disgust and chagrin.
“I hate to tell you, lads,” he said, “but it must have happened during my flight. I had fired twice, and given the red hounds cause to be sorry they chased after me; and then I suddenly missed my powder horn. It must have been torn loose while I was passing through some dense bushes.”
“Did you go back and try to find it?” asked Dick, while Roger seemed mute with consternation.
“Yes, but it was no use,” replied the guide, “and I had to give it up.”
“Then we are in a bad way, without any ammunition for our guns,” Dick continued, though he did not attempt to criticize Mayhew, for he realized that, after all, it had been an accident, liable to happen to any one, and he felt sure the frontiersman must be suffering in his mind on account of it.
“I have the load in my gun, and one in my pistol,” said Mayhew. “Besides that I found a little powder wrapped in a paper in one of my pockets, enough to charge one of your guns, and some left over for priming.”
“That was lucky, at any rate; how came you to have it with you?” asked Dick.
“I remember that, some time before I left on that trip back to the Missouri and down to the outposts of civilization, I was cleaning out my powder horn, and the little it contained I placed in that paper, and then in my pocket. I forgot all about it when I filled the horn from the stores. Now, it may be, that one charge will stand between us and starvation.”
“Oh! I hope it will never get as bad as that, Mayhew,” said Dick; and yet, deep down in his heart, he knew they were facing a desperate condition, so far away from the rest of the expedition, and surrounded by perils of every type.
“Two charges in all!” summed up Roger, finding his voice. “That means that we must make each one tell. And, Dick, I want you to load your gun with that spare powder Mayhew has. You are a surer shot than I, and when we use that load it must bring returns.”
“We’ll see about that later on,” was all Dick replied.
“But now that we can talk without running any danger,” continued Roger, anxious to learn whether either of the others had noticed the same strange happening in the camp of Blackfeet, “I want to ask you why that Indian, who was watching us go away, failed to give the alarm?”
Dick stopped short. He seemed to be astonished beyond measure at what the other had just said.
“Do you mean to tell me, Roger, that you believe any such thing?” he asked.
“I certainly do,” came the response. “I looked back more times than I can tell you, and there he was, craning his neck and watching everything we did. To the very last I saw him still looking.”
“Yes, he is right!” declared Mayhew, breaking in upon the dialogue as though he, too, had been grappling with a mystery that he could not understand. “I saw the same thing. The Indian was watching you, I could swear to that. Once he dropped his head, only to raise it again. He seemed to be having some difficulty about holding himself up long, for he was bandaged about the shoulder.”
“Oh!”
The way Dick said that one word told Roger that he must have seen a great light. But why should Dick show signs of satisfaction; for that was clearly expressed in his tone?
“You have guessed the answer, Dick?” exclaimed Roger, hastily. “Please tell us what it is, because, for one, I am groping in the dark.”
“You heard what Mayhew just said, and how the man who looked was wounded in the shoulder? Stop and think, and you will remember that he must be the one who had chased after Mayhew, and came back with a bullet wound in the muscles of his shoulder.”
“Which you dressed as neatly as any doctor could have done it,” said Roger.
“At the time the brave gave little sign that he was grateful,” continued Dick, as he figured things out; “but you know that all Indians practice hiding their real feelings. They think it weak to show signs of fear or anything like that. But, at the same time, an Indian can be grateful, and I believe that brave proved it.”
“He did, oh! he did!” exclaimed Roger, no longer groping in darkness since Dick had thrown light on the mystery. “He knew we were escaping, but he could not find it in his heart to betray the one who had been so kind to him! I shall never believe so badly of Indians after this. My father was right when he told me they could be reached by kindness; and surely he and Uncle Bob ought to know.”
Somehow all of them fell silent for some time. No doubt they were thinking how strangely they had been favored by Providence. (Note 9.)
Several hours had elapsed since the escape, and they were some distance away from the scene of the adventure. The snow was more than ankle deep, and coming down at a furious rate.
Walking was difficult, especially since all of them were weary, and in great need of rest. Roger staggered at times, and once fell flat, though he hastened to assure the others, as he scrambled to his feet, that he had not suffered by his awkwardness.
“We will have to seek shelter of some sort,” declared Dick, finally.
Apparently the frontiersman was only waiting to hear something like this; for, as a grown man, he did not fancy being the first to call quits, as long as those boys saw fit to keep on tramping.
“It would not be a bad idea, I think,” he now remarked.
“If we could have a fire like we did that other night it would feel good to me,” Roger told them.
“We might try,” said Dick.
“And when morning comes, how about breakfast?” continued Roger. “What meat I had was taken away from me, and you must be in the same fix.”
“Yes, they thought it was useless to let me keep on carrying fresh elk meat when we all needed something to eat. But I am thankful they left me my ditty bag; and I have my knife too, you remember. How about you, Mayhew?”
“I still have some meat with me; about enough for one meal around,” replied the guide. “After that is gone we will have to shoot game of some sort, either elk or buffalo, so as to lay in a stock.”
“Here is a place that looks as though it would afford shelter from the storm among these fissures in the rock,” announced Dick, which declaration brought cheer to the heart of Roger.
A little investigation, the best that conditions allowed, showed them that they could enter one of the fissures and avoid the sweep of the rising wind that was now causing the snow to blow in sheets.
Determined to do all in their power to obtain some comfort, they selected the best shelter, and then crept within. Roger was the first to discover some scattered bits of wood lying around, a tree that grew further up the abrupt face of the mountain having dropped some of its branches.
Accordingly they obtained a light by means of the tinderbox and flint and steel. This enabled them to collect some of the fuel, and in the end they had a cheery fire.
Sitting near this for an hour made them so sleepy that they were glad to roll over wherever they chanced to be, and give themselves up to slumber.
The snow continued to fall heavily during the balance of the night. The wind howled through the adjacent trees in a mournful fashion, but within that fissure all was peaceful.
Once or twice the old frontiersman would awaken on feeling cold, and toss more fuel on the smoldering embers of the fire, after which he would again lie down.
So morning found them. They would not have known that the day had come if Dick had not made his way to the mouth of the fissure and looked out. Apparently some hunter instinct had warned him that sleeping time had passed.
The snow was falling as thickly as ever. There was already a foot, and more, of it on the ground. Up on the mountain, where a previous fall had remained, it probably was twice as deep.
To go out while the storm prevailed was hardly wise, much as the boys wanted to be on the move.
Dick had taken note of certain things while the French trader was talking to them, and particularly of the fact that, when Lascelles spoke of the “other camp” in which Jasper Williams was held a prisoner, he had, possibly unconsciously, nodded toward the east.
It was in that direction the great lake lay of which they had heard so much, and from one thing and another Dick came to the conclusion that the camp must be located on the border of this large body of water.
Roger was looking anxiously at the meager stock of meat which Mayhew had produced from his pockets. There might be enough to satisfy their present hunger, but, once it was gone, the future did not seem very inviting.
They cooked it as on the former occasion.
“And it tastes much better than that the Indians gave us,” Roger asserted, for the Blackfeet took little pains to keep the meat from scorching, and this had given it a taste not at all pleasant to the boys.
All too soon was breakfast over, and the last scrap of meat devoured. Roger heaved a sigh of regret as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I wish I knew where we would get the next bite,” he remarked. “It seems to me we eat in queer places on this trip. But I wouldn’t mind that so much if I only felt sure there would be another meal.”
After that they sat around and talked as they attended to the fire. Now and then one of them would get up to make another hunt for fuel, the stock of which was beginning to get low.
It was far from a pleasant prospect staring them in the face. The wonder was how Dick could appear to be so cheerful through it all, and keep on saying he felt certain it would all come out right in the end.
Roger at least had the good sense to keep his fears to himself. Whenever he felt that he could almost give a shout, such was the nervous tension under which he was laboring, he would jump up and busy himself in hunting wood. In action he managed to gain control over his nerves, so that he could resume his seat, and once more listen to what the others were debating.
Plans were gravely discussed. To hear Dick laying these out one would never dream that they were based upon such a slender shred of hope. Two charges in their guns; many days’ journey from the home camp; surrounded by mysterious workings of Nature calculated to make most men flee in terror; sought after by a revengeful French trader and his Indian allies; and now overtaken by a snowstorm that promised to make traveling additionally difficult—what a prospect for two half-grown lads and a single man to face!
The last time Dick came back from making an investigation as to the conditions outside, he brought a little satisfactory news. The snow was falling in diminished volume, and there was a promise that by another hour it might cease entirely. Then they could issue forth, and begin to beat their way toward that section of the country where they believed the big lake to lie.
Hardly had he imparted this information than they were startled by a deep roaring noise from without. It seemed as though the foundations of the mountain were shaken and, remembering what a strange country they were in, Roger could hardly be blamed for starting up with a cry of alarm.
The light that came in through the mouth of the fissure suddenly gave way to darkness; only the flickering gleam of their fire remaining to show them which way to move.
“Oh, what has happened now?” asked Roger, and as usual Dick seemed to know.
“It is a snow avalanche,” he told them, “and I am afraid it has blocked our only means of leaving here, so that we are once more prisoners!”