A few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor gave him life and he spoke more freely.
“Rafe Norris hez got her, curse him!”
“Whar is he?”
“Up among the foot-hills—by the Spirit Spring.”
“Ho; thet’s it, eh? Did the gal do this?”
“She shot me,” gasped the dying man, “and Rafe—thought I’d die—and stabbed—me—the dog—let him die—a dog’s—death! Curse him, dead or alive!”
As he spoke he caught the knife by the handle and drew it from the wound. A great gush of black blood followed, and Velveteens, the henchman of Rafe Norris who had done his evil work for many a year was dead.
“Tell yer what, boys,” said Old Pegs, “this man wouldn’t ’a’ died ef he’d bin let alone. Thet shot through the neck wouldn’t ’a’ killed him by no means, but the dirty thief hed done with him and so finished him. Now then, lift him up and we’ll plant him outside. He ain’t going ter stay hyar, ye know.”
They lifted the limp and bleeding form and carried it up the steps into the open air. Little time was spent upon his burial; a shallow trench was dug in which they laid him in his blood, and heaped the fresh earth above him as quickly as they could.
“We’ll go back to camp,” said Old Pegs. “It’ll take all the boys ter do this job, but they’ll do it right smart. Come on.”
They sprung into their saddles and rode back to the camp of the brigade, and the word passed from man to man that the outlaws had taken Myrtle, the beautiful child of the old hunter. Not a man in the brigade but had chivalry enough in his nature to peril his life for the girl, and they hailed with delight the order to march. Dave Farrell led them, a look of stern determination upon his handsome face. Woe to Rafe Norris if they met to-day!
They knew the ground well where the enemy had made a shelter, and that it was a natural fortress, from which it would be no child’s play to drive a party of determined men. Yet they cared not for the danger or difficulty, but were stirred—one and all—by the impulse to save Myrtle at whatever cost.
An hour’s march brought them to the foot-hills, at a point where the hand of Nature had hurled the rocks together in grand confusion, piling rock on rock, forming a grand barricade which it seemed impossible to scale. As they approached the dark defile which formed the only entrance to this gloomy place, Dave Farrell touched Old Pegs upon the arm.
“There is the scene of our first battle, old man,” he said. “Rafe Norris is too old in mountain lore to leave such a place undefended. Call the men to a halt, Jim,” he added aloud, speaking to his second in command.
He had scarcely spoken when a mounted man shot out of the dark defile, followed by another and another, until eight horsemen, mounted admirably and armed to the teeth, were seen to form under the rocky wall. Enemies as they were Dave could not but admire the manner in which they fell into line, nor doubt that they were fearless and well-trained men. No time was wasted and no questions asked, for, as this body of brave men began to form, the trappers spread out to left and right and opened a telling fire upon them at the distance of three hundred yards. Massed as they were against a wall of gray rocks, upon which their forms stood out in bold relief, there was no such thing as missing, and their men were dropping on every side under the murderous fire before they were ready for the charge and the command to advance rung out. The same command might have served for the brigade for they closed in at the same moment, slung their rifles, drew their revolvers and charged!
An equal number of the most daring fighters, the best horsemen and best armed must make a terrible fray, and one or the other must break soon. It was the band of Rafe Norris which “could not stand the pressure,” and after a bloody engagement of five minutes’ duration, during which many a blow was given and taken and many revolvers emptied—not without effect, the broken band of Norris reeled backward and fled for the entrance of the ravine, with the men of the brigade upon their haunches. The deep glen swallowed them up, when, as if by magic, the entrance to the glen bristled with lances held by Indians, who well know how to use them, forming an impenetrable obstacle to any further advance.
A single shout from Dave Farrell and his men broke to left and right, one half led by Old Pegs and the other by himself, and making a circuit they met upon the spot where the battle had commenced.
“Hot work, boys,” said Dave as he passed his hand across his heated brow. “If it had not been for those cursed lances we would have been on their cruppers yet, but no horsemen in the world could break through those lances as they are posted now; but we can drive them out.”
“I’ll take the job,” said Old Pegs. “I only want ten men.”
“Take them,” cried Dave, shortly, “and when the pass is clear signal us to advance.”
Old Pegs picked out his men and rode away at a cracking pace, accompanied by two men to bring back the horses. In the meantime the British force were grouped in the rear of their Indian allies, ready to meet the attack should the enemy attempt to break through. What was their surprise to see the trappers dismount and begin to lounge about, just out of rifle range, making no effort to advance.
“They’ve sent for help, I reckon,” said a dark-browed, ruffianly looking fellow who had command of the whites in the detachment who guarded the pass. “What d’ye say, Injun?”
Injun John, who since the death of Half-breed Jack had command of the Sioux, nodded gravely in reply.
“He has gone for Whirlwind and the Blackfeet. Wagh; the Sioux do not fear the Blackfeet dogs.”
“That must be it,” replied the white leader, evidently puzzled, “but I don’t know why he took twelve men with him. We might make another dash at them, boys.”
“No you don’t!” replied one of the men. “I didn’t enlist for this sort of work, and though I’ll go as far as any man in the interest of the Company, I don’t feel called on to lose my scalp.”
“You’re a dreadful cautious boy, Ned,” said the leader. “So cautious that it looks almost like cowardice.”
“I think I can prove I ain’t a coward,” said the man addressed, drawing a revolver and covering the form of his leader. “Back yer opinion, Jim Diggs; draw iron.”
“I cave!” said Jim Diggs, waving aside the obnoxious weapon. “I didn’t say you was a coward, but I said you was dreadful cautious—and so you be.”
“Caution is a good thing ain’t it, Jim?” said the man, still covering him with the deadly weapon.
“Caution is bully!” was the reply of Jim Diggs; “don’t p’int that thing at me—it might go off.”
The man returned the weapon to his belt, satisfied with the lesson which he had given, but certain at the same time that he would have to answer for the act at some future day. The Indians looked calmly on, expecting a fray, and were rather disappointed when they saw Jim Diggs bottle up his wrath and say no more.
The position they occupied was a strange one. The pass was not more than twenty paces wide, bordered by perpendicular rocks twenty feet high without lateral passes on either side. No movement was made by the trappers, and their enemies did not care for another close grapple by daylight. An hour of inaction passed, and the ruffians began to gather courage and talk of another attack.
“Say,” cried a voice overhead. “Won’t you please go ’way frum hyar? I ask it on my knees.”
They looked up and saw Old Pegs standing calmly on the summit of the rock, looking earnestly down at them.
“Won’t you please go ’way?” he repeated. “We wanter come through this yer pass, ourselves.”
“Why don’t you come, then?” demanded Jim Diggs, restraining some of his companions who were about to fire on the old hunter.
“Acause you’ve got some chaps down thar with long poles, and the cattle kain’t come through,” replied Old Pegs.
“That’s bad!” said Jim Diggs, “and they are a dreadful obstinite lot of men, too, and I’m afraid they’ll want to stay whar they are.”
“Can’t we persuade ’em ter go ’way?” said Old Pegs.
“I’m afraid not, old man.”
“I’ll try what I kin do!” roared Old Pegs. “Go to work, boys.”
The ravine was narrow as we have said, and the sides very precipitous. The old man suddenly disappeared, and scarcely had he done so when the sky began to rain large stones about the size of a man’s head, which came rattling down about the skulls of the enemy in a dreadfully unpleasant way, while nothing could be seen of the men who were throwing them, and who lurked far enough back of the verge to be out of range.
“Kain’t we persuade yer?” yelled Old Pegs, as stone after stone came crashing down. “Oh, yes, we kin. Git up and dust, you scum of mortality. You children of evil, git!”
It was death to remain, for, hemmed in that narrow pass, while the rocks continued to come down like rain upon their heads, four men already lay dead, and others were desperately wounded, while the mocking laughter of the trappers, perched upon the rocks, rung in their ears. Worst of all, they could not see their assailants, who prudently kept back out of reach while they continued to send the stones flying over into the pass.
There was nothing for it except retreat, for no man could live long under that terrible avalanche. There seemed to be no lack of ammunition, for the hail-storm increased instead of diminished. Having done all that men could do, they retreated, and Old Pegs signaled the trappers from the top of the rocks. They at once threw themselves into the saddle and came on at a mad gallop. As the Hudson Bay men showed a disposition to return, those on the rocks took their rifles and gave them two withering volleys, which quickly sent them back into the valley beyond. Running along the crest of the ravine at the head of his men, Old Pegs gained a position from which he could guard the advance of his friends at little hazard to himself. The enemy were now hastily retreating across the valley, moving toward a dark pass two or three miles distant, where they proposed to make another stand. Old Pegs rapidly descended the rocks and joined his friends, as they debouched from the ravine, with Dave Farrell at their head.
“Well done, Old True Blue!” he said. “That trick saved us twenty men, at least.”
“We hain’t got men to spare, either,” replied Old Pegs. “Them devils kin fight, and you bet yer life they will fight, too, cuss ’em. Thet pass they ar’ gittin’ inter now is mighty strong.”
“Can’t we turn it, as we did the last?”
“Ska’cely! They won’t be sech durned fools this time, and we may kalkilate on finding some of ther men roosting on the sides of the ravine, ef we play thet game. ’Sides thet, the pass is wider, and they could keep away from the stuns.”
“Then we must attack them in front,” said Dave, quietly. “I’ll back my boys to do the work clean.”
“I guess we kin do better’n thet,” replied the old hunter. “Whar’s my hoss? What wuz it old Solomon said ’bout a beggar on hossback, eh? I’m one ov them chaps myself, jest now, but I feel more at hum. Hold on; what d’ye say ef I go out and hev a talk with them critters?”
“It might do some good, but I doubt it,” replied Dave.
“I guess I’ll try it. They hev hed a right smart chaince ter know what kind of stuff we ar’ made of, and mebbe they’ve got enuff. Anyhow, I kin only try it. Who’s got a han’kercher? Don’t all speak ter onc’t, ’cause I knows yer don’t blow yer noses onc’t a week. Not thet one, Granny; they’ll think it’s a black flag and shoot at me. No, Pipes, old boy; they’d kick on thet, too; they’ll think it’s a battle-flag, full ov holes. Hyar’s one will do.”
He took the handkerchief which Dave presented, fastened it on a ramrod and rode away toward the pass. At first the Indians showed a disposition to fire at him, but at a word from the man who acted as leader of the whites, Jim Diggs, they lowered their weapons, and the leader stepped a few paces to the front and waited for the coming of the hunter, who rode on, shaking out his hastily-improvised flag.
“Hullo, Jim,” he said, coolly. “Durn my cats ef I’ve seen ye sence the day Captain Burns hed ye hosswhipped out’n Laramie fur stealing his blankets. I’m mighty glad ter see ye.”
“Play yer game a little more keerful, old man,” said Diggs, playing with the butt of his revolver. “I kain’t ante or foller suit when ye lead that way.”
“Pass it, then,” replied Old Pegs; “but don’t try ter skeer me by laying hands on a weepen, or I’ll come down on yer like a roaring lion and devour ye, body and bonos. I’m mighty hungry, anyhow.”
“This ain’t business,” replied Diggs, seeing that bravado was of no avail. “What d’ye mean by pitching inter us, this way?”
“Jimmy—Jimmy Diggs!” said Old Pegs, “whatever ye do, play fa’r. Didn’t you try to wipe us out, over north, night afore last?”
“I guess you’ve made a mistake, old man. We don’t seek to harm no one.”
“No more Velveteens didn’t, nor yet Rafe Norris, eh? Come, Jim, don’t be so cussid foolish. Whar’s my gal?”
“Your gal! I dunno what ye mean; we hain’t got no gal, ez I knows on.”
“Mebbe I’d better ask yer another question. Whar’s Rafe Norris?”
“Dunno any such person,” replied Jim Diggs, quietly.
“You don’t?”
“No sirree; ain’t no sech person in this yer camp, nor yet no Velveteens. I guess you’ve barked up the wrong tree, boss.”
“It seems as ef we didn’t understand one another’s game,” said Old Pegs, frowning. “Now look yer: I want to know whar Rafe Norris is—the man thet stole my gal. You know who I mean durned well, you cussid skunk, and you’d better tell me now while I keep my temper.”
“Don’t know any Rafe Norris.”
“Whar is Curly-headed Ned, then? Does thet seem ter suit yer complaint?”
Jim Diggs started and turned pale, as the old hunter pronounced that name. It told him that he was not to be deceived, and that he knew well the character of Rafe Norris.
“You size my pile, Old Pegs,” said Diggs, quietly. “I know that name well enough, and I kin find him mighty easy.”
“Find him, then.”
Diggs turned about and whistled, and a man showed himself at the mouth of the pass.
“The capt’in,” cried Diggs. “Say Old Pegs wants ter see him.”
The man disappeared, and ten minutes later a man rode out of the pass, at the sight of whom Old Pegs loosened his revolver in his belt, while an ominous look passed over his face. It was Rafe Norris, clad in a half-Indian garb, with a plumed head-dress flaunting the eagle-feather of a chief. It was a strangely picturesque garb, and he looked noble in it, wicked man as he was. There was a look of reckless daring on his face as he dashed up.
“Ho, Old Pegs,” he said. “My worthy father-in-law that is to be, I greet you. To what may I ascribe the honor of this meeting?”
“Don’t chaff any more then you kin help, Rafe, acause I ain’t in the right temper ter b’ar it. You lying skunk, whar is my gal, Myrtle?”
“Safe enough, my dear sir, safe enough,” replied Rafe. “I have come to the conclusion that you are not the right person to take charge of a beautiful girl like Myrtle, and so I have taken her off your hands. You ought to be thankful for it.”
“I want that gal, Rafe Norris.”
“So do I!” replied Norris, calmly. “Let us understand one another, my good old friend. I love that girl and intend to make her my wife. I love her so well that nothing earthly, past, present or to come, can turn me from my purpose. The fear of death, all that any enemy can do, weigh as feathers in the balance against my love for her, and I will not give her up. I have another reason, too, which I will not tell you now.”
“You’d ruther die, eh?” cried Old Pegs, in a tone of deadly fury. “Then stand out thar like a man, take yer rifle and fight it out.”
“Thanks,” replied Rafe. “I’d much prefer not to do that. But, don’t you want to see your child?”
“Yes,” replied Old Pegs.
“You shall. Now Jim! Down with him.”
And regardless of the flag, the two men threw themselves upon Old Pegs and attempted to bear him to the earth.
This cowardly act, while it was a surprise to Old Pegs, did not find him utterly unprepared. He suffered himself to slip from the saddle, and in doing so, dragged his two assailants with him, each encircled by one of his powerful arms. Once upon the ground they realized that it was not an easy work which they had undertaken, for those great arms enfolded them with a gripe which literally drove the breath from their bodies, strong men as they were. A moment more and Jim Diggs was down with the huge foot of the hunter planted on his breast, while above him stood the stalwart old man with Rafe Norris in his grasp, shaking him until it seemed as if he would tear him limb from limb.
“Turn on a flag, would yer?” hissed the old man. “I orter kill yer—I orter cut yer heart out, by Jinks; why shouldn’t I?”
Rafe made frantic efforts to get at a weapon, but his efforts were vain, and Jim Diggs was utterly powerless under the pressure of that heavy foot. The outlaws in the pass, seeing the terrible danger of their leaders, advanced at a wild gallop, while a party of the trappers about equal in numbers, charged in return. But, before they could reach the combatants Old Pegs was standing alone in a sea of tossing steel, set upon at once by twenty foes. His wild whoop of defiance rung out above the tumult and a terrible commotion was made in their midst. Horses careered away riderless, shouts of wild rage were heard, and out of the tempest of steel rode Old Pegs, whirling above his head the rifle which served him for a mace. More than one Indian cabin was empty from that hour, for the warriors would never more return from the battle or the chase.
“Yah—hip!” yelled Old Pegs, as he still struck right and left. “Old Pegs is thar, every time. Whoop! Sock it to ’em, boys; give ’em Bunker Hill!”
His friends are hardly a hundred paces away, when the brave old hunter dropped his hands to his side attacked by an unlooked-for weapon, and one against which he had not time to guard, the lasso! He feels the deadly noose settle over his shoulders and tighten about his arms, still another and another follows—and he is dragged from the saddle into the center of his enemies, who, satisfied with what they have done, turn their horses’ heads and fly, bearing the hunter in their midst. Close upon the crupper, dropping a man at almost every stride, ride the bold trappers, so close indeed that they sweep into the pass with the pursued so near that they can not turn and defend themselves. Man after man falls and still they press on.
“Keep up the pace, boys!” screamed Dave, wild with the delight of battle. “Down with the cut-throats.”
Rafe Norris heard his voice and made a half-turn in his saddle with a revolver in his hand. Without checking his horse in the least he fired and the bullet passed through Farrell’s cap, absolutely cutting a track through his thick hair, so close a shave was it. Dave returned the fire quickly, but a man who happened to swerve a little from his course received the bullet and fell with a hoarse cry of agony, stricken through the collar-bone.
But this pace could not last forever, and the outlaws burst out of the pass in advance and were half-way across the level valley which lay in front when the headmost trapper rode out of the pass. Here there was room to turn, and Rafe Norris was the man to take advantage of it. Forty of his bravest men wheeled out and joined him and they formed a line to protect the retreat of the rest, held the trappers in check for five minutes and then fell back slowly, their faces ever turned to the foe and their rifles playing upon their scattered files. In this order the rear guard disappeared in the next pass, leaving the trappers in the valley, a place of small extent with a narrow strip of timber crossing it from side to side. Under the shadow of this timber Dave called his men to a halt, to breathe the horses which had been severely blown in the desperate chase.
“We have lost a good man, boys,” he said, raising his cap reverently, “for these villains will murder him beyond a doubt. Taken while bearing a white flag! By Heaven, the Sioux alone would not have been guilty of a breach of faith like that. What are we to do now we have lost our guide?”
“I know the passes well enough, Cap,” replied one of the men, “but upon my word we’ve got heavy work before us. They can hold that pass against us for twenty years.”
“We’ll try it, however,” replied Dave. “At best we can only fail and I for one have given my life to the cause.”
Old Pegs was a prisoner in the hands of a foe as relentless as death, a man who respected nothing, not even the sanctity of a flag. The lassoes had not been removed from his arms but he was lifted bodily into the saddle of a man who had fallen under the sweep of his powerful arm, while on one side rode Jim Diggs and on the other a man equally cruel, holding a revolver ready for a shot.
“The Hudson Bay must be proud of its men,” said Old Pegs. “Ef a North-west party hed done this, not one of ’em could ’a’ stayed in ther kentry.”
“The Company don’t know all we do,” replied Diggs, with a grin. “Our instructions are gineral and we take lots of latitude.”
“Looks like it,” said the old hunter. “You run fast enough.”
“It’s a good thing to know when to run, old man,” replied Diggs.
They entered the pass in safety and were quickly followed by the rear guard. Rafe Norris came last and leaped from his horse quickly.
“Lances to the front,” he cried. “Joe Beaver, take ten men up the east side of the pass and don’t let any one come up. Boston Jake, take the same number of men up the west side with the same instructions. If you had done this before, Jim, you would have saved some men.”
“I know it, now,” said Diggs. “D’ye want to save this prisoner? He ain’t wuth much to keep.”
“I have not fully made up my mind,” replied Rafe Norris.
“Shoot me, why don’t you?” cried Old Pegs. “You shot the Indian and Velveteens, good friends of yours, and why not Old Pegs?”
“Dog!” hissed Rafe Norris. “You don’t know how near to death you are at this moment. Breathe a word of that kind again and you are a dead man.”
“I don’t keer much how soon I go under,” was the undaunted reply, “but I don’t believe even your men would stand a murder like that. Why don’t you try it?”
“’Twon’t do, Cap,” whispered Diggs, with a side glance at the men. “Thar’s over twenty of our boys gone under, and some of ’em ar’ alive, probably. If we kill him now thar ain’t no chance for them.”
“See that he does not escape, that is all. If he does, your life will answer for it. I am satisfied that, without him for a guide, the devils can’t get at us, and our taking him was a sore stroke to them. I am going up to see my intended bride, Old Pegs.”
Rafe Norris laughed scornfully, leaped into the saddle and rode away swiftly up the pass, which ended in a sort of amphitheater, hemmed in by giant rocks, an approach to which by any thing except the opening by which he had entered seemed almost impossible. Six men were in the place, seated upon a flat rock, four of them engaged in a little game of “draw poker,” and the fifth looking on deeply interested. A little way off, Myrtle sat upon a stone, and a stalwart man stood near, watching her closely. Her countenance was downcast, and she did not look up when Rafe Norris rode into the glade and dismounted. The players suspended operations and looked at their leader in some doubt.
“Away with those painted darlings,” he cried. “Your business was to watch the prisoner, not to play poker. We are beset by this accursed Brigade, and it is impossible to say whether we will ever escape. Over twenty of the boys have gone under, but we’ll hold the pass now—no matter what happens, until the last man drops.”
He left them and advanced hurriedly to the side of Myrtle, making a signal to the guard that he might go. The fellow seemed glad to be released, and walked hastily away, while Rafe took a seat upon a stone close to Myrtle.
“How have you passed the hours of my absence, darling?” he said in his blandest tone. “I hope you have not grieved that I did not return sooner.”
“My deepest grief was in the thought that you would come back sooner or later,” was the reply. “It can not last long, for your master will surely claim his own soon.”
“My master? Oh; you refer to the Supreme Master of the realms below,” replied Rafe with a light laugh. “Have no fears, my sweet one. He never interferes with those who are doing his work on earth if he can possibly avoid it. I came to bring you a little news?”
“You can bring me none that will please me,” was the cool reply, “unless it is that the day of your hanging is appointed!”
“Hardly that, dear girl. How you must love me by this time.”
“Yes, as I love adders, toads and rattlesnakes.”
“You will go too far, my girl,” he said, knitting his dark brows. “I warn you to be careful, for although I am a man who can bear much from one I love, my temper is not of the sweetest at all times. Do you know that your father is in my hands?”
She started and look at him wildly. She had hoped for much at the hands of Old Pegs, and if he were indeed taken her hope was vain.
“I can hardly believe that you speak the truth,” she said. “By what treachery has he fallen into your hands? He never was taken by fair means.”
“It matters little,” was the reply, “as long as I have him safe—and intend to make him the means of extorting a promise from you which I know you will not break. Ha; your friends are getting impatient, but my boys will teach them that it is not good to rouse the lion in his lair.”
The battle had recommenced in the pass beyond.
“The lion! Do not shame that noble brute by comparing yourself with him. Say rather the coyote—sly, treacherous and cowardly—and the simile may apply.”
“My patience is going fast,” he said, savagely. “Now hear me, and be careful of your answers. When we have beaten off your friends, the trappers, we take our march for Fort Garry, as we have done our work here for the present. I am rich now, and will turn my back forever on the mountains and plains of the West, and lead a new life in the region of the tropics. There our lives will pass as a summer idyl, peaceful and calm, and we will forget that this life of ours has ever been. There is a chaplain at Fort Garry who will marry us—”
“Never!”
“Hear me out. Give me your promise to go with me, and no harm shall come to him you call your father. I know that it is false—that he is not your father, but that is nothing now. Refuse, and he shall die with the utmost refinement of savage torment.”
“You would not do that?” she gasped.
“I? Oh no, that is not my business, but you must understand that the Modoc Sioux—my allies—have lost many friends, and they claim a victim. And, in short, I shall consider myself bound to give them one if you are obdurate. What do you say?”
“I must see my father.”
“Oh, no; I know that the old knave would only strengthen you in your obstinacy, and that would not pay. Without seeing him, you must either accept or refuse.”
“You say that the Modoc Sioux demand a victim. Let it be so, then, for I will not see my father perish.”
“Do you accept?” he cried, eagerly, for he knew that she would keep a promise once made, if it broke her heart.
“You misunderstand me, sir. What I propose is this: let the Sioux have their victim in me, and let that brave old man go free.”
“You—you!” he stammered. “Saints of mercy, what do you take me for?”
“I owe a happy life to Nicholas Fletcher, him you know as Old Pegs. Even in this wild region, he has made me happy for twenty years. Nothing which he could do has been wanting, and I owe him so much that I am ready to give up my life for his sake.”
At this moment a rattling volley was heard at the entrance of the valley, followed by wild yells of savage vengeance. The fire was returned, but as Rafe Norris listened breathlessly he knew that his men were falling back. What could it mean? Why had they been so suddenly ousted from their strong position by a force not nearly as large as their own?
While Dave Farrell was deploying his forces for an attack upon the pass, he heard behind him the rattle of advancing hoofs, and quickly drew his men back into the shelter of the trees, for it might be an enemy. But, to his delight, the first man who rode out of the pass was Whirlwind, the Blackfoot, and behind him a hundred picked men of his nation. They had followed the outlaws after the repulse at the trapper camp, and attacked their rear, but they had taken shelter in one of the passes and had driven the Indians back. But, hearing the sound of the combat, Whirlwind, who was on his way to join his forces with those of Dave Farrell, at once turned back and now came on eager for the fray.
The reinforcement was needed, for the trappers were somewhat worn by the battles and skirmishes of the day. Dave rode out to meet the chief and greeted him warmly.
“My brother has fought well,” said the warrior, reproachfully; “but, why did he not wait for the Blackfeet, who seek revenge upon the Modoc Sioux and their friends?”
“We did not know where you were, chief,” replied Dave; “but we’ll give you fighting enough before we have done with this business, that I tell you. There is the enemy, but if you join us, you must fight as I tell you.”
“Whirlwind is not ashamed to fight under the Beaver Captain,” replied the chief. “He will listen to the words of wisdom.”
“Dismount your men and picket the horses here behind the woods. Five men will do to guard them.”
The order was promptly obeyed, and the Blackfeet advanced on foot. They were an active-looking, stalwart body of men, and Dave was delighted with their appearance.
“We are here,” cried Whirlwind. “Let the Beaver Captain tell us what to do, and we are ready.”
“Good!” replied Dave, adopting the laconic manner of the Indians. “Remember that Short Legs is a prisoner among our enemies, and be careful to do him no harm. Speak to your men and tell them this.”
The chief did so, and then drawing him aside, Dave gave him instructions how to proceed. His plan was to separate the Indians and send them up the hills to drive out the two parties detached by Rafe Norris to guard the flanks of his forces, and then assail them from the cliff, while the trappers attacked the front.
The Indian, pleased with the duty assigned him, quickly separated his men, placing one half under the command of a man whom he could trust, and then, keeping under cover of the strip of woods, marched to the right and left until they reached the confines of the valley, and began to steal up through the dark defiles, climbing from rock to rock, toward the place where the flanking-parties lay.
It was some time before these men understood the movement, but when they did so, every thing was done which men could do to make their position good. But the savages, sheltering themselves in every conceivable way, gradually closed in until scarcely a hundred yards separated them, when they rose from the cover and rushed in with hatchet and knife to do the work assigned them. A desperate struggle followed, hand to hand and foot to foot; but numbers triumphed, and of the twenty-two men who had been appointed to guard the flanks, only eight, and three of these wounded, reached the level where their comrades stood.
These had their hands full, for the trappers were advancing, firing as they ran, and a large party had already effected a lodgment among the scattered bowlders which lay about the mouth of the pass, while the Blackfeet were raining down every possible missile on the heads of the astounded British.
The Sioux, unable to stand the attack, were falling back in confusion, with great loss, and the whites opened to permit them to pass through, while they closed in sullenly to cover the retreat. Sadly thinned in numbers, the band showed a gallant front still, and walked calmly back, pausing now and then to take a shot at the Blackfeet on the rocks, who showed themselves at times, shaking the scalps they had taken in the air, and waking the echoes with their shouts of triumph.
“Look hyar; some one is going to git hurt if this goes on. You’d better let me loose,” Old Pegs said.
“I’ll see you skulped first,” roared Jim Diggs.
“Good-by, then,” replied Old Pegs, tauntingly, as he flung himself out of the saddle suddenly and sprung into a deep fissure which ran close beside the road. “I’m off!”
“Shoot him, durn ye, shoot!” yelled Diggs, as he emptied his revolver into the fissure up which the old hunter was climbing, his form scarcely distinguishable. A volley rattled upward and Old Pegs who had reached a ledge at least twenty feet above them threw up his hands and fell upon the ledge out of sight.
“Done fur!” said Jim, coolly. “He would hev it, ye see. Jump up thar, Boston Jake, and lift his ha’r.”
The man was about to obey, but at this moment the trappers burst in upon them and Boston Jake was forced to go with the rest, and in some haste, for the bullets of the trappers, “deadly aimed and hot,” rattled through the crowded ranks. The slow retreat turned almost to a rout, long before they reached the mouth of the ravine, but at this moment, wild eyed and savage, Rafe Norris broke a way through the ranks of his own men and reached the front.
“Turn, curse you, turn!” he screamed, striking one of his own men a furious blow which brought him to the ground. “Turn, cowards and dogs! Never let it be said that you fled from such as these.”
There was certainly personal magnetism about this man, for those who were to all outward seeming beaten beyond recall, turned at his slightest word and for a moment bore back the rushing tide of the trappers. But the Blackfeet, creeping from ledge to ledge, again reached a place from which they could rain destruction on the heads of their enemies, who were again forced to retire, but sullenly, contesting every foot of ground.
“That cursed Blackfoot has ruined us, Jim,” groaned Rafe, looking up at the cliffs. “But for him they never could have broken through.”
“The boys fought like devils, I tell ye,” said Jim Diggs. “Oh, I forgot to tell ye thet ‘Old Pegs’ tried to leg it and we had to pop him over.”
“Let him go,” replied Rafe, quietly. “If it had been Dave Farrell I would have felt better, and yet the old man has done me wrong. Look out!”
A great rock hurled from the hand of Whirlwind, struck Jim Diggs on the head and brought him to the earth with a hollow groan, while a wild triumphant yell pealed up from the throat of Whirlwind as he noted the result of the throw. The last and most unscrupulous of the lieutenants of Rafe Norris had gone to his last home. Rafe shook his clenched hand at the Indians on the cliff, and ordered his men to fall back to the mouth of the pass which opened into the Spirit Spring Valley, resolved to hold it to the last.
The Modoc Sioux, greatly thinned by the battles of the last two weeks, sullenly took their stations behind the bowlders, ready to die in their tracks if need be. The whites looked over their cartridges, saw to it that every weapon was in order, and stood ready to obey the commands of their chief.
“I’d like to revenge myself on them, boys,” hissed Rafe Norris. “If it did not look like deserting you, I have a way yet if it would suit you.”
“Let’s hear it, Cap,” said Boston Jake. “We’ll do any thing for you.”
“I don’t doubt it, Jake. Come with me and I’ll tell you my plan.”
The two stood in close conference for a moment and then Jake passed to and fro among the men, telling them what the captain meant to do and they agreed to it at once. Then leaving them to keep off the forces of Dave Farrell as long as possible, Norris stepped hastily to the side of Myrtle.
“Come, my darling,” he said, mockingly. “It is time that we were on the way.”
“I am not going anywhere with you,” was the answer.
“Really, you do yourself wrong by such conduct as this. You are going somewhere with me and at once.”
“I will not.”
“I have no time to waste. Will you go with me quietly or shall I call some of the Indians to carry you? They are not very courteous knights, and perhaps—”
“I will go with you,” she said, quickly, “but woe to you if you cherish any evil thought against me, for with the first weapon I can reach I will kill you.”
He made no answer but took her hand and led her at a rapid pace up the little valley until he reached the south end. Two Indians bearing a number of new lariats accompanied them and they stopped at the base of the almost perpendicular cliff and began to climb like cats until they reached a ledge fifty feet above the bottom of the canon. Then they sent down the ends of a doubled lariat which was formed into a sort of chair at the bottom, and at a sign from Rafe, Myrtle took her place in it and was raised to the ledge above. The rope was lowered again and Rafe came up, hand over hand, and reached the ledge panting for breath. The Indians slid down the lariats, which Rafe flung down to them and the two departed, leaving Rafe and Myrtle standing on the ledge.
“It will trouble your good friends to follow us here,” said Rafe, laughing. “Capital scouts they may be but I doubt if they could track us up this cliff.”
“You will find it hard to deceive my father,” she replied, “if he once takes your trail.”
“I don’t think he will trouble me any more,” replied Rafe, with a grim smile, turning away his head. “Your father was a plucky and keen-witted man, but it is out of his power to harm me now.”
“Have you murdered him?” she gasped, looking at him wildly.
“I am not a murderer,” was the calm answer. “He tried to escape from my men while I was basking in the sunlight of your smiles, and got hit. That is all I know about it.”
“I will remember how it was done,” cried Myrtle, with a lurid gleam in her beautiful eyes. “But I will speak to you no more until the time comes for you to die.”
He took her hand again and led her by wild paths across the mountain, until she was nearly ready to sink from fatigue. Through all this, he had shown a certain chivalrous care of her which was hardly to be looked for after all that had happened. When he saw that she was tired, he stopped and pulled moss from the rocks, which he spread to make her a couch.
“Do not fear me,” he said, as she seemed to shrink from his touch. “I would not do you a wrong, for I worship the ground your feet have trod.”
“It may be so,” she said, quietly. “Let us say that you really love me, then. But, do you not take a strange way of showing it?”
“I will change all that,” he cried. “Look you, Myrtle Forrester—you start at the name, do you?—I will show you that I know more of you than you suppose. On the fourteenth of June, twelve years ago, a train was run into by Sioux on the plain toward the Three Buttes. It was supposed that every person was killed, but as it turned out, an old prairie-man, known as Old Pegs, was some miles from camp, having in charge a child six years of age, the daughter of an Indian agent named Forrester, who was going to Bent’s Fort. These two were all who escaped, and Old Pegs came back to find the camp in ruins, and every man and woman killed and scalped.”
“You know all this? Will you tell me how it came to your knowledge?”
“No matter; I know that it is true, and so do you. Forrester was not quite dead, and after leaving his daughter to the care of Old Pegs, with an injunction to guard her as his life, Forrester died. Old Pegs kept his word, and Myrtle Forrester is now my prisoner, and destined soon to be my wife.”
“You dare not say that my brave guardian did not keep his promise well,” cried Myrtle. “No father could be more tender or true than he has been to me, and I can not bring myself to think that he has been foully murdered.”
“You still cling to that word, Myrtle. If I had been his prisoner, and had attempted to escape, he would not have hesitated to fire at me.”
“Doubtless you are right,” she said; “but I shall not pardon you for that. Why have you told my story to me here?”
“That you may know that I am not entirely unacquainted with your history, and that I knew who and where you were before I came to the Indian country. Myrtle, I came to find you and win your love!”