Kitabı oku: «The Yellow Chief», sayfa 3

Of his life since that time the story is easily supplied. On leaving the State of Mississippi he had gone westward into that of Arkansas; staying for some time at Little Rock. He had afterwards made his way to the Rocky Mountains, in the hope that among their deep defiles he might be enabled to bury the sorrow that was preying upon him. Chance had brought him in contact with ’Lije Orton, a noted trapper of the time; and something besides had made them trapping companions, as well as fast friends: for ’Lije, though of rude habit and exterior, was at the heart true as steel.

The young Irishman, smiling at the crude simile of his companion, made no reply. Indeed, there was no opportunity; for, while delivering it, ’Lije saw that the buffalo-ribs were sufficiently roasted; and, leaning forward over the fire, he transferred them from the spit to a large wooden platter, taken out of his “possible sack” (The “Trapper’s travelling bag”). Before any response could be given, he had separated the ribs with his knife; and, taking hold of one in both hands, he commenced stripping it with his teeth, as quickly and adroitly as could have been done by the hungriest coyoté (Pronounce, Cohote. The “Prairie-Wolf” (Canis latrans)).

Chapter Seven.
Breakfast Interrupted

The two trappers had got about half through their Homeric meal, when a sound reached their ears, that caused them not only to stop mastication, but hold the half-polished ribs suspended, as if they would have dropped them out of their hands! It was a shot they heard – first one, and then several others following in quick succession. They were heard only indistinctly, as if fired far off upon the prairie. But even thus, the sounds were not agreeable; for the report of fire-arms in that solitary region has a significance, and not always a safe one. It might be a friend, who had discharged his gun; but it is more likely to be an enemy. Evidently so believed the two trappers, else they would not have fixed their camping-place in a spot so difficult of access – requiring them to wade waist-deep in water, and twice too, every time they went a hundred yards from their tent! The spring-branch occupying the full bed of the cañon, the only way by which they could conveniently pass out to the plain, nailed for this semi-immersion. But the same gave them protection against idle intruders.

“Speel up, Ned!” cried his companion, “an’ see what you kin see.”

The request was at once complied with; the young trapper, flinging down his half-picked bone, commenced climbing the steep face of the rock, assisted by the branches of the cedars. ’Lije remained below, continuing his matutinal meal.

In a few seconds time O’Neil had reached the summit of the cliff; and with a small binocular glass, which he had taken up along with him, commenced examining the country in the direction whence the shots appeared to have come.

It was yet only the earliest dawn, and the plain towards the east was still shrouded in darkness. But as the young man kept gazing through the glass, a quick flash came before its field, followed by the report of a gun. At the same instant sparks flew up, as if from a fire that had been trampled upon, and on the still morning air, he could hear the confused sounds of strife, in which human voices appeared to be intermingled with the yelling of demons!

“D’ye see anything, boy?” called his comrade from below. “I hyurd another shot out purairiaward. You must ’a seed the flash o’t?”

“More than that,” responded the young man, speaking with bated breath. “Come up, ’Lije! There’s a fight going on not far off. Some travellers have been encamped, as I can tell by the sparkling of their fires. They appear to have been attacked, and by Indians. Come up, quick!”

The old trapper, grumbling his chagrin at being interrupted in his déjeuner, dropped the buffalo-rib; and taking his rifle along with him, commenced ascending the cliff.

By the time he had joined his companion on the summit, the day had almost dawned; for the morning twilight is of short duration on the head waters of the Southern Platte.

Looking eastward over the plain, they could now see something more than the gleaming of camp-fires; the white tilts of waggons set in corralled shape, and around dark forms, of both men and horses, swarming and moving like bees hiving upon a branch. They could hear, too, the sounds of strife still continuing, or it might be the exulting shouts succeeding a triumph.

“A camp o’ whites,” said the old trapper, half speaking to himself, and half to his comrade. “That’s clar from their havin’ waggons. And they’ve been attackted by Injuns; that’s equally sartin from the shouts. Thar’s no mistakin’ them yells. They kedn’t come from any other than an Injun’s throat. I wonder who the whites kin be?”

His young comrade, equally wondering, but still busy with his binocular, made no rejoinder.

“A party o’ emigratin’ travellers, I reck’n?” pursued the old trapper. “Can’t ’a be any o’ Bent’s or Saint Vrain’s people. They wudn’t a got surprised that eezy, nor ’ud they a’ gone under so quick. Sartint sure hev they gone under. Listen to them yells! Thet’s the conquerin’ screech o’ Injuns, sure as my name’s ’Lije Orton!”

His companion did not need any assurance, beyond what he himself heard and saw. There could be no doubt about its being a travelling party, either of emigrants or prairie-traders, that had succumbed to an onslaught of savages.

Neither were they long doubtful as to the character of the travellers. The sun, now peeping up over the far prairie edge, illumined the scene of strife, showing half-a-dozen waggons, with some of their canvas covers dragged off; and around them the dark forms of a savage cohort.

“It’s a karryvan o’ emigrants, as I tuk it for,” said the trapper. “Rayther a small ’un at thet! What durned fools they must a’ been to ventur’ acrosst the purairias wi’ sech a trifle o’ strength as they ’pear to have! They’re all ‘rubbed out’ now, I reck’n; or them as lives is captered, an’ in the hands o’ the Injuns.

“If them Injuns be, as I suspect they ur – Yellow Chief an’ his band – the Lord pitty them poor critters! They’d better got rubbed out in the scrimmage, and thar ’ud a been an eend o’t.”

“Yellow Chief!” repeated the trapper’s companion. “Ah! if it be he, the cruel ruffian, and he have captives, you are right, ’Lije, in pitying them. I heard some terrible tales of him last time I was over at Bent’s Fort. Whoever the Indians be, they are certain to have taken some captives. An emigrant train, there should be women and children along with it? Surely the savages will not kill them! Can we do nothing towards rescuing them? Think, ’Lije!”

“I am a-thinkin’, an’ hev been, ever since I kim up hyur. But ’tain’t no use. We mout think our heads off, ’ithout devisin’ any way to be o’ use to them. We’d only git ourselves into the same trap as they’re in – an’ maybe wuss; for them Cheyennes – ’specially Yellow Chief’s gang – he’s late tuk a desperate anger agin’ us trappers, because, as they say, some o’ our fellurs carried off one o’ thar squaws from the place whar they war campin’ last spring in the middle Park. If it’s the Cheyenne tribe, as is squeelin’ out thar, the furrer we keep away from ’em, the longer we’ll hev har on our heads. Hilloa! what’s thet thing comin’ on yonder?”

The exclamation, as the query that followed, was called forth at sight of a dark object, that seemed to be moving over the prairie, and in the direction of the cliff – from the top of which the two trappers, themselves concealed behind a cedar-tree, were scanning the outward plain. It had the appearance of a human being; but one so diminutive in size and of such dusky hue, that it might have passed for a fresh dropped buffalo calf, or one of the dark-brown wolves sometimes seen among the mountains. And it seemed to go with a crouching gait, unlike the upright attitude of man!

“It’s a nigger!” cried the old trapper, as the moving object began to get near. “A nigger, an’ a boy at thet! Durn me ef ’taint! What a cunnin’ young darkey he be. Look how he winds about through the bushes, crawlin’ from scrub to scrub! Durn me ef thet boy ain’t wuth his weight in best beaver skins! Now, I kin see how it air. He’s been one o’ the karryvan, which by thet, I reck’n, must be from the South; one o’ thar slaves sartin; an’ seeing his master rubbed out, he’s tuk leg bail on his own account. Wagh! he’s comin’ right this way! Ned, yu’re soopler than I’m; skoot out, an’ try ef ye kin catch him, while I stay hyur, an’ look out for what’s a doin’ yonder. Grit your claws on the darkey, ef ye ken, an’ we may larn all about it.”

O’Neil sprang down the cliff; and wading through the cañon, was soon alongside the black-skinned fugitive – a negro boy, as anticipated.

There was no chase required for the catching him: the darkey was already breathless and broken down, after his long run; and submitted to being taken prisoner without any attempt at running away – the more readily no doubt on seeing that his captor was white.

The young Irishman did not question him on the spot: but at once conducting him into the cove, called to his comrade to come down.

“Wall, ye young imp o’ darkness!” began the trapper, as soon as he had descended, “whar hev you come from, so skeeart-like?”

“From de wagins, massa – de wagins, whar da wa camp – ”

“What wagons?”

“De wagins dat we’re all a trabellin’ wif, cross de big praira. Dar war de white folk and de collr’d people, all ob de plantash’n; an’ I ’speck dey all kill’d ceptin’ maseff.”

“Who kilt them?”

“De Injuns, dem as war paint’d red, an white, an’ ebery colour – dey come gallop up on da hosses jess as our folks wa ’bout to git breakfass; an’ ’fore we know what we doin’ dey fire dar gun, an’ run dar long ’pears troo de people. O, massa! I’se sure ebbery body gone killed.”

“Wharfor de ye think thet?”

“Kase I see ole massa fall down an’ de blood ’treaming out o’ him face, and den I see de obasseah fire shot from his gun, and den de young missa she holler out, an’ so did all de ress ob de women an’ chilren, boaf de bracks an’ de whites. Gorramity! how dey did ’cream!”

“What war the name o’ yur ole massa, as ye call him? Kin ye tell us that?”

“Law, boss, sartin I kin tell dat. Ebbery body know de name ob ole massa. He call de Squiah Brackedder.”

“Squire Brackedder!”

“Squire Blackadder?” asked O’Neil, listening with intense anxiety for the answer.

“Ya, massa; dat am de name.”

“Whar did ye come from? Kin ye tell thet, darkey?”

“From Massissippy ’tate – de ole plantashun ain’t berry fur from de town o’ Vickburg, on de big ribba.”

This was about all the information the negro lad could give.

It was sufficient for the time. On obtaining it, the trapper threw up his hands, and gave utterance to a loud “Phew;” while his companion stood silent, as if suddenly struck dumb!

Chapter Eight.
Planning a Rescue

“What’s best to be dud? What d’ye say, Ned?”

“Let us go straight to the place, and see what has happened. Oh, heavens! If Clara has been killed!”

“Go straight to the place! Yur a dreamin’, young ’un! Supposin’ it be Yellur Chief an’ his crowd o’ cut-throats? We’d both o’ us get sculped to a sartinty.”

“But we might approach under cover near enough – ”

“Near enuf for nothin’. Thar ain’t no kiver in that quarter, as I kin see from hyur; an’ to cut acrosst the purairia, ’ud be to go strait sartint inter the teeth o’ them squallin’ skunks. Thay’re boun’ to be drunk jest about this time; and whether it’s Yellur Chief’s lot or no, we’d get sharp sass from ’em. Thet ye may swar to.”

“We must do something, ’Lije. I cannot bear to think that she may be in the hands of those horrid savages, and I standing here almost within sight of her! If she be living I must rescue; and if dead, by heavens, I shall revenge her! We must do something, ’Lije! we must.”

“An’ who said we wa’n’t a go in’ to do somethin’? Not this chile, sure. Maybe I mout a said so, ef thar hed been only ole Blackedder in the scrape an’ his precious son along wi’ him, an’ along wi’ both thet scoundrel o’ a overseeur, Sam Snively. But the gurl – she’s diff’rent; an’ I feel as desprit on doin’ somethin’ for her as you kin. F’r all thet it’s no use our doin’ what air durned foolechness. We must set ’bout this thing wi’ percaushun. Hyur you, darkey! Kin you tell how many Injuns thar war in the party thet attackted ye?”

“Dar war a big lot, massa – gobs on ’em; I’se sure more’n a hunder – far more’n dat.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the trapper, disappointedly. “’Tain’t no use inquirin’ o’ him. See hyur, niggur! Did you notice any o’ them as ’peered to be thar leader?”

“Wha – what, massa?”

“A leeder, durn ye! A chief!”

“A chief?”

“Yes, one that war actin’ as boss, or overseer.”

“Ah! de boss. Yes, thar war a bossy ’mong dem; I ’pose he muss ’a been, lease he order all de oders ’bout.”

“Kin ye discribe what he war like? How war he dressed? What sort o’ duds had he on him?”

“Easy ’nuf dat, massa. He drest moas like de ress ob dem – only on de top ob him head dar wa’ a big spread ob feather, shinin’ like de tail o’ a peacock.”

“The Yellur Chief!” exclaimed the questioner, on hearing the description.

“No, massa. He no yella’. He wa’ painted red. Dar wa’ some yella’ stripe; but mos’ ob him wa’ a bright red colour – redder dan blood.”

“Never mind that, nigger: you don’t know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. What did ye see him do?”

“Seed him try to ’top de shootin’ and killin’.”

“Stop the shootin’ and killin’! You saw him tryin’ to do thet? Air ye sure o’t, boy?”

“No, massa, I ain’t shoo’. I thort he wa’ doin’ so. I wa’n’t shoo’. I wa’ ’feard dey ud go on wif de killin’, an’ dat’s why I ’tole ’way from de place, an’ run out dis way.”

“Eft be Yellur Chief, odd ’bout his tryin’ to stop the killin’. ’Tain’t his way.” This remark was to O’Neil, who stood chafing at the delay.

“It is strange;” he answered. “In any case, it’s no use our remaining longer here, if we’re going to do anything. What can you think of, ’Lije?”

The trapper, with his right palm resting upon the stopper of his gun, stood for a while, reflecting.

“Thar’s one thing,” he said at length; “eft air this Cheyenne skunk, an’ he ha’nt kilt the hull lot o’ them outright, thar’s jest a chance o’ our savin’ some o’ ’em.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed O’Neil, in a tone of relieved anxiety. “You think there’s a chance, ’Lije?”

“I duz.”

“In what way?”

“Wal; still concedin’ the point o’ its bein’ Yellur Chief, I kin guess putty near what it means. He’s out wi’ a band o’ the young braves, that ain’t likely to track strait back to the town o’ thar tribe; so long’s they’ve got captive weemen among ’em.”

The young Irishman started at the words. They conveyed a thought that gave pain to him; but, anxious to hear his comrade’s scheme for their rescue, he did not interrupt him.

“An’ ef’t be them, I kin guess whar they’ll go – most sartin o’t. This chile chances to know one o’ Yellur Chief’s private campin’ grouns’. I larnt thet when I war trappin’ in this quarter too yeern ago – time’s you war down stayin’ at Bent’s. They’re over yonner now, a plunderin’ the poor emigrants an’ thar wagins, an’ we mout go strait to ’em ef we wanted to git shet o’ our scalps. But as we don’t want thet, the question is, whar they’ll be when we kum back in search o’ ’em.”

“Come back! You purpose going somewhere? Where to?”

“To Saint Vrain’s.”

“Ah! For what purpose?”

“For the only purpiss thet kin sarve our purpise: an’ thet air to git a wheen o’ mounting men as kin lend us a han’ in this bisness. Without thet, we’d hev as much chance to rescoo the captives – ef thar be any sech – as for a kripple to catch a Kit-fox.”⁹

“Do you think we should find any there?”

“I’m sartint we will. The darkey hez tolt us o’ a party that passed the wagins on thar way. No doubt they war boun’ for the Fort. Besides, I met sev’ral fellurs last seeson while I war trappin’ on the Collyrado, as sayed they war goin’ east, an’ intended makin’ stop at Saint Vrain’s on thar way. I shedn’t be serprised ef we foun’ fifty on ’em thar now. Helf o’ the number will be enuf to chestise Yellur Chief an’ his gang o’ freebooters. Thurfor let’s go to the Fort right away, an’ see what kin be done.”

“I’m with you, ’Lije! We must lose no time! Think of the danger she may be in; that is, if not past all danger already. Oh, I fear to reflect on it.”

“Ye’re right, ’bout not losin’ time,” said the trapper, without noticing the last exclamatory remark. “Same time,” he added, “’twon’t do for us tu make too much haste, else we mout find it the wuss speed, as the spellin’ book used ter say. We must keep clost in to the bottom o’ the bluffs in goin’ torst Saint Vrain’s; else them Injuns may spy us. Ef they shood, we’ll be in for a ugly scrape; an’ not like to git clar o’t ’ithout sheddin’ the skins o’ our two skulls. Wagh! thet ere wudn’t be no way agreeable; an’ ef’t wa’n’t thet thar’s a gurl in the questin, whose life, an’ somethin’ else, oughter be saved, I’d a stayed hyur to finish my breakfust, and let Yellur Chief an’ his cut-throats go straight to custrut to – darnation! But come, Ned! we’re a wastin’ time, an’ I know you don’t weesh thet. Hyur now nigger! you help wi’ the saddlin’ o’ these hosses. Ef you’ve been brought up ’bout Squire Blackedder’s stables I reck’n you know somethin’ ’bout hosses. An’ harkee, boy! we two air goin’ away a bit. So you keep clost in this hyur hole, till we kum back agin’. You kin rest yur black karkidge inside that thar tent, whar ye’ll find somethin’ in the way o’ buffler meat to keep yur ivories from chatterin’. Don’t eet it all, d’ye heer. We may come back sharp-set; an’ ef thar’s nothin’ left, may take it into our heads to eet you.”

While this talk was going on, two horses were led forth from a cave in the cliff that served them for stable.

Both being quickly accoutred, the trappers sprang into their respective saddles; and spurring towards the cañon, were soon plunging between its shadowy walls, on their way to the outward plain.

Sixty seconds spent in wading, and they emerged dripping into the light of day. More of it than they wished for: since the sun was now fairly up, his disc appearing some two or three degrees above the prairie horizon.

There was need for the horsemen to show circumspection. And they did: silently skirting the cliff, and keeping behind the huge boulders, that, for long ages shed from its summit, strewed the plain at its base.

“Arter all, Ned,” said the old trapper, when they had ridden to a safe distance from the dreaded spot, “we needn’t ’a been so partickler. I reck’n, ’bout this time, thar ain’t a sober Injun upon the banks o’ Bijou. I hope ole Blackedder an’ his party, afore leavin’ the settlements, laid in a good supply o’ rot-gut – enuf to keep them skunks dead-drunk till we kin git back agin. Ef thet be the case, thar’ll be some chance o’ our chestisin’ ’em.”

A mental “amen” was the only response made by the young Irishman; who was too much occupied in thinking of Clara Blackadder’s danger, to reflect coolly on the means of rescuing her – even though it were certain she still lived.

Chapter Nine.
Saint Vrain’s

One of the classical names associated with the “commerce of the prairies” is that of Saint Vrain. Ever since trapping became a trade, or at all events, since prairie-land, with its wonders, had grown to be a frequent, as well as interesting topic of conversation around the hearth-fires of the American people, the names of Bent, Saint Vrain, Bonneville, Robideau, Laramie, and Pierre Choteau, might often be heard upon the lips of men.

And none more frequently than Saint Vrain, by whose daring and enterprise not only were caravans carried across the almost untrodden wilderness to the Mexican settlements of Santa Fé, but forts established in the very midst of this wilderness, and garrisons maintained, with a military efficiency rivalling the body-guard of many a little European despot!

Yet there was no despotism here, supported by the sweat of a taxed people; only a simple defensive organisation for the pursuit of a valuable, as a laudable, industry.

And when the iron horse goes snorting through the midst of those distant solitudes, and cities have sprung up on his track, the spots so marked in our history will become classic ground; and many a tale will be told of them, redolent of the richest romance.

Were I to live in the not very remote future, I would rather have in my ornamental grounds the ruins of one of Bent’s or Saint Vrain’s Forts, than the crumbling walls of Kenilworth Castle or the Keep of Carisbrooke. More picturesquely romantic, more exalting, would be the souvenirs recalled, and the memories awakened by them.

Saint Vrain’s trading-post, on the South Fork of the Platte, was one of those long noted as a favourite rendezvous of the free trappers¹⁰, as might have been told by any one chancing to make stop at it in the season when these wandering adventurers laid aside their traps to indulge in a spell of idleness and a “spree.”

Just such a time was that when Squire Blackadder and his emigrant companions were approaching the post, and fell into the clutches of the Cheyennes. It was not one of their grandest gatherings, since only about twenty of them were there; but among twenty trappers, or even less, there is no lack of company. And if all, or even part of them, have returned with fat packs, and found beaver selling at three dollars the “plew”¹¹, there will be a merry company; at times becoming dangerous – not only to strangers, but to one another – through too much drink.

An assemblage of this sort – including, we are sorry to say, both the sober and the drunk – were at Saint Vrain’s Fort, on the day above specified. They had come there from all quarters – from the parks and “holes” of the Rocky Mountains, from the streams, creeks, and branches on this side running east, as well as from the head waters of the Green, Bear, and Colorado coursing west. Nearly all of them had made a good season of it, and arrived with their pack animals staggering under the spoils of the trap and the rifle.

These had become the property of the Fort, after an exchange on its side of guns, knives, powder, and lead, with five-point Mackinaw blankets, and other articles of trapper wear; including those of adornment, and not forgetting some sparkling bijouterie intended as gifts, or “guages d’amour” for the bronze-skinned beauties of the prairie. Rude as is the trapper’s life, and solitary too, he is not insensible either to the soft charms of love, or its companionship.

In addition to the articles thus swapped or “trucked,” the trappers assembled at Saint Vrain’s in exchange for their peltries, had received a large quantity of coin currency, in the shape of Mexican silver dollars. With these burning the bottoms out of their pockets, it is scarce necessary to say that drink was the order of the day, with cards as its accompaniment.

We regret having to make this statement; as also that quarrels are the too frequent termination of these games of euchre and “poker.”

Another source of strife among the trappers assembled at Saint Vrain’s was to be found in the fact, that a friendly Indian tribe, the “Crows,” were encamped near the post; and among these birds, notwithstanding the name are many that are beautiful.

No soft courtship suits an Indian belle. If you want to win her, you must show bravery; and you will not risk losing her affections if your bravery degenerate into brutalism!

Such are the moral inclinings of both men and women in the state called “savage;” but it must not be supposed that this is the state of Nature. On the contrary, the savages, properly so-styled, have long since passed from their pristine condition of simplicity.¹²

Several quarrels had occurred among the trappers at Saint Vrain’s Fort – more than one that had ended in the shedding of blood – and one of the bloodiest was on the eve of breaking out, when a cry from the sentinel on the azotea¹³ caused a suspension of the broil.

The quarrellers were below, on the level plain that stretched away from the grand gate entrance of the building, and formed a sort of general ground for assemblage – as well for athletic sports, as for games of a less recommendable kind.

The shout of the sentry caused them to look towards the plain, where they saw two horsemen going at a gallop, and evidently making for the Fort.

The rapidity with which they approached, and the way they were urging on their steeds, told a tale of haste. It could be no caper of two men trying the speed of their horses. The animals seemed too badly blown for that.

“Thar’s Injuns after them two fellers!” said Black Harris, a celebrated mountain man. “Or hez a been not far back. Boys! can any o’ ye tell me who they are? My sight ain’t so plain as ’twar twenty yeer ago.”

“If I ain’t mistook,” answered another of the trapper fraternity, “that ’un on the clay-bank hoss is ole ’Lije Orton, oreeginally from Tennessee. Who the other be, durn me ef I know. A young ’un, I guess; an’ don’t look at all like these hyar purairies, though he do sit that black hoss, as though he war friz to him. Don’t the feller ride spunky?”

“Ay dios!” exclaimed a man whose swarth skin and bespangled costume proclaimed him a Mexican. “Call that riding, do you? Carrai! on our side of the mountains a child of six years old would show you better!”

“In trath an’ yez are mistaken, Misther Saynyor Sanchis, as ye call yerself. I know who that gossoon is that’s comin’ up yonder, for he’s a countryman of mine; and, be the powers! he can roide to bate any Mixikan in the mountains – not like a cat stickin’ on the back av a goat, as yez do it; but like a gintleman. Him yonder beside ould ’Lije Orton, is Misther Edward Onale, ov the Onales av County Tipperary; an’, be jabbers, he is a gintleman be both sides av the house!”

Before this new discussion could culminate in another quarrel, the two horsemen had ridden upon the ground, and pulled up in the midst of the trappers, who, with eager, inquiring looks, gathered in a circle around them.