Kitabı oku: «The Yellow Chief», sayfa 4
Chapter Ten.
Changed Hostilities
The freshly arrived horsemen, instead of alighting, remained seated in their saddles.
For a time neither spoke, though their silence might be for want of breath. Both were panting, as were also the horses that bore them.
“Theer’s somethin’ wrong, ’Lije Orton,” said Black Harris, after saluting an old comrade. “I can tell that by yur looks, as well’s by the purspiration on yur anymal. ’Tain’t often as you put the critter in such a sweet. What is it, ole hoss? Yeller belly, or Injun? It can’t be white.”
“White’s got somethin’ to do wi’ it,” replied the old trapper, having somewhat recovered his wind. “But Injun more.”
“Thar’s a riddle, boys! Which o’ ye kin read it? ’Splain yurself, ’Lije.”
“Thar ain’t much explinashin needed; only that a party o’ emigrants hez been attackted on Bijou Crik, an’ maybe all on ’em killed, fur as this chile kin tell.”
“What emigrants? Who attacked them?”
“Yur fust question, boys, I kin answer clar enuf. They were some planters from the State o’ Massissippi.”
“That’s my State,” interpolated one of the trappers, a young fellow, inclined to take part in the talking.
“Shet up yur head!” commanded Harris, turning upon the fellow one of his blackest frowns.
“Whether it air yur State or no,” continued the imperturbable ’Lije, “don’t make much diff’rence. What I’ve got to say, boys, air this: A karryvan o’ emigrant planters, boun’ for Californey, wi’ thar niggers along, camp’d last night on the bank o’ Bijou Crik. After sun-up this mornin’, they war set upon by Injuns, an’ I reck’n most, ef not all on ’em, hev been rubbed out. I chance to know who them emigrants war; but thet’s no bizness o’ yurn. I reck’n it’s enuf that they war whites, an’ thet Injuns hez dud the deed.”
“What Indians? Do you know what tribe?”
“That oughtn’t to make any diffrence eyther,” responded ’Lije. “Though I reck’n it will, when I’ve tolt ye who the attacktin party war, an’ who led ’em. I’ve alser got on the trail o’ that.”
“Who? ’Rapahoes?”
“No.”
“Tain’t the direction for Blackfeet.”
“Nor Blackfeet neyther.”
“Cheyennes, then? I’ll stake a bale o’ beaver it’s them same Injuns, in my opeenyun, the most trecher-most as scours these hyar perairies.”
“Ye wouldn’t lose yur skins,” quietly responded ’Lije. “It air Cheyennes es hez done it.”
“And who do you say chiefed ’em?”
“There’s no need asking that,” said one, “now we know it’s Cheyennes. Who should it be but that young devil they call Yellow Chief? He’s rubbed out more o’ us white trappers than the oldest brave among ’em.”
“Is it he, ’Lije?” asked several in a breath. “Is it the Yellow Chief?”
“’Taint nobody else,” quietly declared the trapper.
The declaration was received by a perfect tornado of cries, in which curses were mingled with threats of vengeance. All of them had heard of this Indian chieftain, whose name had become a terror to trapperdom – at least that section of it lying around the head waters of the Platte and Arkansas. It was not the first time many of them had sworn vengeance against him, if he should ever fall into their power; and the occasion appeared to have arrived for at least a chance of obtaining it. The air and attitude of ’Lije Orton led them to believe this.
All at once their mutual quarrels were forgiven, if not forgotten; and, with friendships fresh cemented by hostility to the common foe, they gathered around the old trapper and his companion – first earnestly listening to what these two had still to tell, and then as earnestly giving ear to the trapper’s counsels about the course to be pursued.
There was no question of their remaining inactive. The name of the Yellow Chief had fired one and all, from head to foot, rousing within them the bitterest spirit of vengeance. To a man they were ready for an expedition, that should end either in fight or pursuit. They only hesitated to consider how they had best set about it.
“Do you think they might be still around the wagons?” asked one, addressing himself to Orton.
“Not likely,” answered ’Lije; “an’ for reezuns. Fust an’ foremost, thar war some o’ you fellers, as passed the karryvan yesterday, ’bout the hour o’ noon. Ain’t that so?”
“Yes; we did,” responded one of the three trappers, who, standing silently in the circle, had not yet taken part in the hurried conversation. “We travelled along with them for some distance,” continued the man, “and stayed a bit at their noon halting-place. We didn’t know any of the party, except their guide, who was that Choctaw that used to hang about Bent’s Fort. Waboga, the Indjens call him. Well; we warned them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer ’un. Like enough it’s him that has betrayed them.”
“Thet’s been the treetor,” said ’Lije. “Him an’ no other; tho’ it moutn’t ’a made much difference. They war boun’ to go under anyhow, wi’ Yellur Chief lookin’ arter ’em. An’ now, as to the lookin’ arter him, we won’t find him at the wagons. Knowin’ you’ve kim on hyar, an’ knowin’, as he’s sartint ter do, thet thar’s a good grist o’ trappers at the Fort, he’ll stay ’bout the plundered camp no longer than’ll take him an’ his party to settle up spoilin’ the plunder. Then they’ll streak it. They’ve goed away from thar long afore this.”
“We can track them.”
“No, ye can’t. Leastwise, ef ye did, it woudn’t be a bit o’ use. This chile hev thort o’ a shorter an’ better way o’ findin’ out thar warabouts.”
“You know where they are gone, ’Lije?” interrogated Black Harris.
“Putty nigh the spot, Harry. I reck’n I kin find it out, ’ithout much gropin’.”
“Good for you, ole hoss! You guide us to thar swarmin’-place; an’ ef we don’t break up thar wasps’ nest and strangle thar yellar hornet o’ a chief, then call Black Harris o’ the mountains a dod-rotted greenhorn!”
“Ef I don’t guide ye strait custrut into thar campin’-place ye may call ole ’Lije Orton blinder than the owls o’ a purairia-dog town. So git your things ready, boys; an’ kum right arter me!”
It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being revenged on the hated subchief of the Cheyennes – for deeds done either to themselves, their friends, or the comrades of their calling – beat high in every heart; and, in less than ten minutes’ time, every trapper staying at Saint Vrain’s Fort, with a half-score other hangers-on of the establishment, was armed to the teeth, and on horseback!
In less than five minutes more, they were hastening across the prairie with ’Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief.
They were only five-and-twenty of them in all; but not one of their number who did not consider himself a match for at least three Indians!
As for Black Harris, and several others of like kidney, they would not have hesitated a moment about encountering six each. More than once had these men engaged in such unequal encounters, coming out of them victorious and triumphant!
Twenty-five against fifty, or even a hundred, what signified it to them? It was but sport to these reckless men! They only wanted to be brought face to face with the enemy; and then let their long rifles tell the tale.
It was a tale to be told, before the going down of the sun.
Chapter Eleven.
Captors and Captives
Once more in the gorge, where the young Cheyenne chief and his band had encamped, before making attack upon the emigrant caravan.
It is the day succeeding that event, an hour before mid-day, with a bright sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The stage is the same, but somewhat changed the characters who figure upon it, having received an addition of more than double the number. The Indians are there; but even they do not seem the same. From the quiet earnest attitude of an expeditionary band, they have been transformed into a crowd of shouting savages.
Foxes before the quarry was run down, they are now ravening wolves.
Some are carousing, some lying on the grass in a state of helpless inebriety; while others, restrained by the authority of their chief, have kept sober, and stand guard over their new-made captives.
Only a few are needed for this duty. Three sentinels are deemed sufficient – one to each group; for the prisoners have been separated into three distinct parties – holding places apart from one another. The negroes, men, women, and children, driven into a compact ring, occupy an angular space between two projections of the cliff. There, huddled together, they have no thought of attempting to escape.
To them their new condition of captivity is not so very different from that to which they have been all their lives accustomed; and, beyond some apprehension of danger, they have not much to make them specially discontented. The Indian who stands beside them, with the butt of his long spear resting upon the turf, seems to know that his guard duty is a sinecure.
So also the sentinel who keeps watch over the white women – five in all, with about three times as many children – boys and girls of various degrees of age.
There is one among them, to whom none of these last can belong. She is old enough to be a wife; but the light airy form and virginal grace proclaim her still inexperienced in marriage, as in the cares of maternity. It is Clara Blackadder.
Seated alongside the others, though unlike them in most respects, she seems sad as any.
If she has no anxiety about the children around her, she has grief for those of older years – for a father, whom but a few hours before she had seen lying dead upon the prairie turf, and whose grey hairs, besprinkled with blood, are still before her eyes.
It is his scalp that hangs from the point of a spear, stuck upright in the ground, not ten paces from where she sits!
There is yet another group equally easy to guard; for the individuals composing it are all securely tied, hand, neck, and foot.
There are six of them, and all white men. There had been nine in the emigrant party. Three are not among the prisoners; but besides the white scalp accounted for, two others, similarly placed on spears, tell the tale of the missing ones. They have shared the fate of the leader of the caravan, having been killed in the attack upon it.
Among the six who survive are Snively, the overseer, and Blount Blackadder, the former showing a gash across his cheek, evidently made by a spear-blade. At best it was but an ill-favoured face, but this gives to it an expression truly horrible.
A top belonging to one of the wagons has been brought away – the wagons themselves having been set on fire, out of sheer wanton wickedness; such cumbrous things being of no value to the light cavalry of the Cheyennes.
The single tilt appears in the camping-place, set up as a tent; and inside it the chief, somnolent after a sleepless night, and wearied with the work of the morning, is reclining in siesta.
Waboga, with the body-servant, keeps sentry outside it. Not that they fear danger, or even intrusion; but both know there is a spectacle intended – some ceremony at which they will be wanted, and at any moment of time.
Neither can tell what it is to be – whether tragic or comic; though both surmise it is not likely to be the latter.
The white men are not so fast bound, as to hinder them from conversing. In a low tone, telling of fear, they discuss among themselves the probability of what is to be done with them.
That they will have to suffer punishment, is not the question; only what it is to be, and whether it is to be death. It may be even worse: death preceded by torture. But death of itself is sufficient to terrify them; and beyond this their conjectures do not extend.
“I don’t think they’ll kill us,” said Snively. “As for myself, they ought to be satisfied with what they’ve done already. They could only have wanted the plunder – they’ve got all that; and what good can our lives be to them?”
“Our lives, not much,” rejoins a disconsolate planter. “You forget our scalps! The Indians value them more than anything else – especially the young braves, as these appear to be.”
“There’s reason in that, I know,” answers the overseer. “But I’ve heard that scalps don’t count, if taken from the heads of prisoners; and they’ve made us that.”
“It won’t make much difference to such as them,” pursues the apprehensive planter. “Look at them! Three-fourths of them drunk, and likely at any minute to take the notion into their heads to scalp us, if only for a frolic! I feel frightened every time they turn their eyes this way.”
Of the six men, there are four more frightened when the carousing savages turn their eyes in another direction – towards the group of white women. One of these is a widow, made so that same morning, her husband at the time lying scalped upon the prairie – his scalp of luxuriant black curls hanging before her face, upon the bloody blade of a lance!
Three others have husbands among the men – the fourth a brother!
The men regarding them, and thinking of what may be their fate, relapse into silence, as if having suddenly bet speech. It is the speechlessness of despair.
Chapter Twelve.
A Novel Mode of Punishment
The sun was already past the meridian when the young Cheyenne chief, coming out from under the wagon tilt, once more showed himself to his captives. Since last seen by them there was a change in his costume. It was no more the scant breech-cloth worn in war; but a gala dress, such as is used by savages on the occasion of their grand ceremonies. His coat was the usual tunic-like shirt of the hunter, with fringed cape and skirt; but, instead of brown buckskin, it was made of scarlet cloth, and elaborately adorned by bead embroidery. Underneath were fringed leggings, ending in moccasins, worked with the porcupine quill. A Mexican scarf of crimson China crape was around his waist, with its tasselled ends hanging behind. On his head was a checkered Madras kerchief, tied turban fashion, its corners jauntily knotted on one side; while above the other rose a “panache” of bluish plumes, taken from the wings of the “gruya,” or New Mexican crane, their tips dyed scarlet.
Stuck behind his sash was a glittering bowie-knife, that might once have been the property of a Kansas regulator; and there were also pistols upon his person, concealed under the white wolf-skin robe that still hung toga-like from his shoulders. But for the emblematical painting on his face, freshly touched up, he might have appeared handsome. With this he was still picturesque, though terrible to look upon. His size – he was full six feet – gave him a commanding appearance; and his movements, easy and without agitation, told of a commanding mind. His followers seemed to acknowledge it; as, on the moment of emerging from the tent, even the most roysterous of them became quiet over their cups.
For some minutes he remained by the open end of the tent, without speaking to any one, or even showing sign that he saw any one around him. He seemed occupied with some mental plan, or problem; the solution of which he had stepped forth to seek.
It was in some way connected with the tiny waterfall, that fell like a spout from the cliff; for his eyes were upon it.
After gazing at it for some time, they turned suddenly up to the sun; and as if seeing in it something to stimulate him, his attitude became changed. All at once he appeared to arouse himself from a lethargy, like one who has discovered the necessity for speedily entering upon action.
“Waboga!” he called, addressing himself to the Choctaw.
The traitor was not one of the intoxicated, and soon stood before him.
“Take some of the young men. Cut down a tree – one of the pinons yonder. Lop off the branches, and bring it here.”
Waboga went about the work, without saying a word; and a couple of tomahawks were soon hacking at the tree.
It was but a slender one, of soft pine wood; and shortly fell. Then, lopped and topped, its trunk was dragged up to the spot where the chief stood, and where he had remained standing ever since issuing the order.
“It will do,” he said, looking at the felled piñon, as if satisfied of its being suitable for his purpose. “Now take it to the fall there, and set it up; behind the jet of the water, so that it just clears it. Sink a deep hole, and see you stake it firmly.”
The hole was sunk; the tree set upright in it; and then firmly wedged around with stones. The tiny stream, coming down from the cliff, fell vertically in front, according to the directions given, just clearing its top.
By further instructions from the chief, a stout piece of timber, taken from one of the limbs, was lashed transversely to it, forming a cross, about five feet above the ground.
During all these preparations no one knew for what they were intended. Even the Indians employed could not tell, and Waboga was himself ignorant.
The captives were equally at a loss to make out what was meant; though they surmised it to be the preliminary to some mode of punishment intended for themselves.
When they saw the erection taking the form of a crucifix, this of itself was suggestive of torture; but observing also the strange spot in which it was being set up, there began to glimmer on their minds a shadowy thought of its kind. Snively and one or two others – Blount Blackadder among them – in the upright post and its cross-piece, with the water-jet falling in front, were reminded of a mode of punishment they had themselves too often inflicted.
“I wonder what they can be after wantin’ with that,” said one of the planters to his fellow-captives.
None of them made reply. The same thought was in the minds of all, and it was terrifying them beyond the power of speech.
The interrogatory was answered in a different way. About a dozen of the Indians, who had been called up around the chief, appeared to receive some directions from him. They were given in the Cheyenne tongue, and the captives could not make out what was said; though they could tell by the attitude and gestures of the chief Indians it related to themselves.
They were not long before discovering its object. Five or six of the young braves, after listening to the commands of their leader, turned their backs upon him, and came bounding on to the spot where the prisoners lay. They appeared in high glee, as if some sport was expected; while the hostile glance from their fierce eyes proclaimed it to be of a malignant kind – some ceremony of torture. And so was it.
It could scarce have been by accident that Blount Blackadder was the first victim selected. He was behind the others, and half crouching in concealment, when he was seized by two of the painted savages; who, jerking him suddenly to his feet, undid the fastenings around his ankles.
It was not to set him free; only to save them the trouble of carrying him to the spot where he was to afford them a spectacle. And it was of the kind at which he had himself often assisted – though only as a spectator.
His fellow-prisoners had no longer a doubt as to the torture intended for him, and in store for themselves. If they had, it was soon settled by their seeing him conducted forward to the spot where fell the tiny cataract, and forced under it – with his back towards the tree-trunk.
In a few seconds, his ankles were bound around its base. Then his arms, set free, were pulled out to their full stretch, and fast lashed to the transverse bar, so that his attitude resembled that of one suffering crucifixion!
Something still remained to be done. A raw-hide rope was passed around his throat and the tree-trunk behind, to which it was firmly attached. His head was still untouched by the water-jet, that fell down directly in front of his face.
But he was not to remain thus. As soon as his position seemed satisfactory to the Indian chief, who stood examining it with a critical eye, and, so far as could be judged through the paint, with a pleased expression upon his face, he called some words of direction to a young warrior who was near. It was obeyed by the Indian, who, picking up an oblong block of stone, stood holding it above the head of him who was bound to the cross.
“So, Blount Blackadder!” cried the Cheyenne chief, no longer speaking in the Indian tongue, but in plain understandable English. “It’s your turn now. Give him a double dose!”
As he spoke, the Indian, who held the stone, sogged it down between the back of Blackadder’s neck and the trunk of the tree. Wedged there, it brought his head into such a position, that the stream of water fell vertically upon his crown!
The words pronounced by the Cheyenne chief produced a startling effect. Not so much upon him, who was transfixed under the jet; though he heard them through the plashing water, that fell sheeted over his ears.
For he well knew the purpose for which he had been so disposed, as well as the pain to be endured; and he was already in a state of mind past the possibility of being further terrified.
It was not he, but others, who heard them with increased fear; others who knew them to be words of dread import.
Snively started as they fell upon his ear; and so to Clara Blackadder. She looked up with a strange puzzled expression upon her countenance.
Give him a double dose!
What could it mean? Snively had heard the order before – remembered a day on which he was commanded to execute it!
And the words, too, came from the mouth of an Indian chief – a painted savage – more than a thousand miles from the scene that recalled them. Even among the blacks, huddled up in the rocky embayment, there were faces that expressed surprise, some the ashy pallor of fear, as if from a stricken conscience.
“Give him a double dose! Gollamity!” exclaimed one. “What do de Indyin mean? Dat’s jess wha’ Massa Blount say five year ago, when dey wa’ gwine to pump on de head ob Blue Dick!”
More than one of the negroes remembered the cruel command, and some also recalled how cruelly they had sneered at him on whom the punishment was inflicted. A speech, so strangely recurring, could not help giving them a presentiment that something was nigh at hand to make them repent of their heartlessness.
They, too, as well as Snively, looked towards the chief for an explanation, and anxiously listened for what he might next say.
For a time there was no other word to make the matter clearer! With his wolf-skin robe hanging from his shoulders, the chief stood contemplating the punishment he had decreed to his captive; a smile of exultation overspreading his face, as he thought of the pain his white victim was enduring.
It ended in a loud laugh, as he ordered the sufferer to be unloosed from his lashings; and dragged clear of the cross.
And the laugh broke forth again, as Blount Blackadder, half drowned, half dead from the aching pain in his skull, lay prostrate on the grass at his feet.
Then came from his lips an additional speech, the young planter might not have heard, but that smote upon the ears of the overseer with a meaning strangely intelligible.
“It’ll do for the present. Next time he offends in like manner, he shall be pumped upon till his thick skull splits like a cedar rail!”
