Kitabı oku: «The Yellow Chief», sayfa 7
Chapter Twenty.
A Ride for more than Life
Nerved by the fear of a terrible fate, did the escaping captive urge forward her swift horse, encouraging the animal both with words and caresses.
He knew her voice, and did his best. He seemed to know, also, why he was thus put to the top of his speed, for under such circumstances the horse seems to be stirred by something more than instinct.
The one ridden by Clara Blackadder was a hunter, of the best Kentucky breed, and might have distanced any of the mustangs mounted by the Indians.
But there was another of the same race among his pursuers – one superior in size, strength, and swiftness even to himself. It was the horse that had belonged to the young lady’s brother, appropriated by Blue Dick, and now following with the mulatto upon his back.
She did not know who. She only knew that one of the pursuers was coming close after her, and saw that the rest had fallen far behind. But, to her terror, she saw that this single horseman was gradually gaining upon her.
Had she been a strong man and armed, she might have reined up, and given him combat. But she knew that the weakest of the Indian warriors would be more than a match for her: and, if overtaken, she must succumb.
There was no hope for her, but in the swiftness of her horse; and once more she spoke words of encouragement, patting him on the neck with her little hands, while striking the heel of her tiny boot against his sides.
The Kentucky blood, answering to this urgency, did his best; and galloped onward, as if his own life, as well as that of the rider, depended upon his speed.
It was all to no purpose. Ere the fleeing girl had made another mile across the prairie, the close clattering of hoofs gave warning that the pursuer was rapidly drawing near; and, giving a glance black, she saw him within less than a hundred lengths from the heels of her own horse.
She saw, besides, what rendered her fears yet more agonising, that it was no Indian who was thus hotly pursuing her, but a man in a cotton shirt – he who was once a slave on her father’s plantation. It was the Yellow Chief divested of his Indian habiliments, whom now, from what she had heard, she must believe to be her brother.
And a brother so cruel – so unnatural! She trembled at the thought of the encounter!
It could not be avoided. In ten minutes more he was riding by her side.
Clutching the bridle-rein of her horse, he drew the animal down upon its haunches – at once putting an end to the pursuit.
“No, no, Miss Clarey!” he tauntingly cried out, “you shan’t escape me so easily. You and I don’t part company, till you’ve served me and mine as I’ve served you and yours. It makes no matter if I am your brother, as Old Nan says. You’ve got to come back with me, and see how you’ll like being a slave. We keep slaves among the Indians, just as you proud planters of Mississippi. Come along with me, and see!”
The young lady offered no resistance; nor did she say a word in reply. From what she had already seen and experienced, she knew it would be idle; and resigning the rein, she permitted her horse to be controlled by him who had so easily overtaken her.
Turning about upon the prairie, captor and captive commenced retracing their tracks; the former sitting erect in his saddle, exultant of success; the latter with bent attitude, and eyes regarding the ground in a look of despair.
The Indians soon came up with their chief; and the captive was conducted back toward the scene where she had witnessed so much suffering.
And what was to be her torture? She could not tell. She did not even think of it. Her spirit was crushed beyond the power of reflection.
The chase had occupied about half an hour. It took over twice the time for the Indians to return. The sun had already sunk low over the ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and it was twilight within the little valley. But, as they advanced, there was light enough for them to distinguish the other captives still lying on the grass, and their comrades keeping guard over them.
So thought the Yellow Chief, as, on reaching the crest of the ridge that ran transversely across the entrance, he glanced up the gorge, and saw the different groups to all appearance as he had left them.
Riding in the front, he was about to descend the slope, when an exclamation from the rear caused him to rein up, and look back.
Several of the Indians, who had also mounted the ridge, were seen halted upon its summit, as if something was causing them surprise or alarm.
It could not be anything seen in the encampment. Their faces were not turned in that direction, but along the mountain line to the northward.
The chief, suddenly wheeling about, trotted back to the summit; and there saw what was causing surprise to his followers, and what now, also, astonished himself. Making out from the mountain, and scattering over the prairie, was a troop of horses without riders. In such a place they might have passed for wild steeds, with some mules among them, for they saw also these. But they were near enough nor to be mistaken for mustangs.
Besides, it was seen that they all carried saddles on their backs, and bridles over their necks – the reins of most of them trailing down to the grass.
The red marauders knew at a glance what it meant. It could be nothing else than the cavallada of some camp that had “stampeded.”
An encampment of whites, or men of their own colour? This was the question that, for a while, occupied their attention, as they stood regarding the movements of the animals.
It did not take them long to arrive at a conclusion. The strange horses, at first scampering in different directions, had wheeled back toward a common centre; and in a drove were now coming toward the spot occupied by the Indians. As they drew nearer, the style of the saddles and other riding-gear told the Cheyennes that their owners were not Indians.
On first seeing them, the Yellow Chief had commanded his followers to take position behind a clump of trees standing upon the slope of the ridge, and hindering observation from the northward. There, for a time, they continued to observe the movements of the riderless horses.
What seemed strange was, that there were no men following them. If escaping from a camp in broad daylight, as it still was, they should have been seen, and some attempt made to recapture them. But, as they strayed under the eyes of the Indians, no owners appeared to be after them.
For some time the Cheyenne chief and his followers sat gazing upon the cavallada, and endeavouring to explain its presence.
They could make nothing out of it, beyond the fact of its being a troop of stampeded animals.
And these could only have come from a camp of whites; for neither the horses nor their trappings were such as are in use among Indians. There were American horses among them, very different from the mustang of the prairies.
Had they got away in the night, when their owners were asleep? Not likely. Even thus they would have been trailed and overtaken. Besides, when the Indians first set eyes on them, they were galloping excitedly, as if freshly stampeded. They were now getting quieted after their scare – whatever it may have been – some of them, as they stepped along, stooping their heads to gather a mouthful of grass.
To the Indians it was a tempting sight. Horse-stealing is their regular profession, and success at it one of their boasted accomplishments. A young brave, returning to his tribe with the captured horse of an enemy, is received almost with as much triumph and congratulation as if he carried the scalp of that enemy on the point of his spear.
They remained in ambush only long enough to see that there were no men within sight of the straying horses; and to reflect that, even if the owners were near, they must be afoot, and therefore helpless to hinder their cattle from being captured. A dash after the drove would do it. They were all provided with their lazos, and there could be little difficulty in securing the strays, to all appearance docile, as if jaded after a long journey. With the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed through the minds of the marauders; and simultaneously they turned their eyes upon the chief, as if seeking permission to ride off in pursuit. Not only was it given, but he himself determined to lead the chase.
Among his other evil passions, cupidity was one; and, by Indian law, the prize belongs to him who takes it. The chance of adding two or three fine horses to his stock was not to be slighted; and turning to one of the men who kept guard over the captive girl, he ordered him to take her on to the encampment.
Then, setting the example to his followers, he rode out from behind the copse, and, at an easy pace, directed his course toward the sauntering cavallada.
Chapter Twenty One.
A Pleasanter Captivity
If the sight of the straying horses had caused surprise to the Indians, not less astonished were they who, within the valley, had been awaiting their approach. The trappers, placed in a well-contrived ambush, had seen Yellow Chief as he ascended to the crest of the ridge, and noticed his strange movements. Divided into two parties, they were stationed near the entrance of the gorge, about one-half their number on each side of it. Two lateral ravines running some distance into the face of the rocky cliff, and thickly studded with scrub-cedars, afforded them a place of concealment. Their plan was to let the returned pursuers pass in, and then, rushing out, to close up the entrance, and thus cut off their retreat. Trusting to their guns, pistols, and knives, as well as the panic which the surprise would undoubtedly create, they intended making a battue of the savages – to strike a grand “coup,” as they themselves expressed it. There was no talk of giving quarter. The word was not even mentioned. In the minds of these men the thought of mercy to an Indian enemy has little place; less for a Cheyenne; and less still for the band of braves led by the Yellow Chief – a name lately distinguished for treacherous hostility toward trappers as well as cruelty of every kind.
“Let’s kill every redskin of them!” was the resolution understood by all, and spoken by several, as they separated to take their places in ambuscade. When they saw the Indians mount upon the summit of the ridge, the chief already descending, they felt as if their design was soon to be accomplished. They were near enough to the savages to make out the expression upon their countenances. They saw no signs denoting doubt. In five minutes more the unconscious enemy would be through the gap, and then —
And then was it that the exclamation was heard from those upon the hill, causing the chief suddenly to turn his horse and ride back.
What could it mean? Not one of the trappers could guess. Even ’Lije Orton was puzzled by the movement.
“Thar must be somethin’ queery on tother side,” he whispered to O’Neil, who was in ambush by his side. “That ere movement can’t a be from anything they’ve seed hyar. They waant lookin’ this way. Durn me, if I kin make out what stopped ’em!”
Of all those awaiting the approach of the Indians, no one suffered so much from seeing them halt as the young Irishman. For the first time in five years he had a view of that face, almost every night appearing to him in his dreams. She was near enough for him to trace the lineaments of those features, indelibly impressed upon his memory. If he saw change in them, it was only that they appeared more beautiful than ever. The wan hue of sadness, and that pallor of complexion, natural to a daughter of the South, had been replaced by a red suffusion upon her cheeks, caused by the chase, the capture, and the terrible excitement of the situation; and she seemed to glow with beauty. And there was something that at the moment rendered her still more beautiful in the eyes of O’Neil. During the interval of hasty action since entering the Indian encampment, he had found time to place himself in communication with some of the white captives, her companions on the journey. From them he had learnt enough to know, that Clara Blackadder was yet unwedded; something, too, of her mood of habitual melancholy, as if there was a void in her heart, none of them understood!
As he knelt behind the cedar-trees, expectant of her return, he had indulged in sweet conjectures as to its cause; and when he saw her upon the ridge, riding down as it were into his arms, a thrill of delightful anticipation passed over his spirit. He could scarce restrain himself from rushing forth to receive her; and it was with difficulty the old trapper could keep him silent in his concealment.
Still more difficult as the Indians halted on the hill.
“They may ride off again,” said he, in an agonised whisper, to his more patient comrade. “Supposing they suspect our presence? They may gallop off, and take her along with them? We have no horses to follow. We should never overtake them afoot.”
“You kedn’t ef we charged on ’em now. They’re ayont the carry o’ our guns. Ef they git a glimps o’ one o’ us, they’ll be sartin to stampede. Don’t show the tip o’ yur nose, Ned; for yur life, don’t!”
The counsel might not have been heeded. O’Neil was in an agony of impatient apprehension. It seemed so easy to rush up to the summit of the ridge, and rescue her he so dearly loved. He felt as if he could have outrun the swiftest horse, and alone vanquished the full band of savages that surrounded her!
Yielding to the impetuosity of his long-constrained passion, he might have made the suicidal attempt, had he not been stayed by the next movement of the Indians, who, to the surprise of all, both prisoners and trappers, were seen to turn their backs upon the encampment, leaving the young girl in the charge of a single savage! Even then Orton found it difficult to restrain O’Neil from leaping out from his ambush and rushing toward his beloved. It seemed now so easy to rescue her!
The old trapper was again compelled to use force, throwing his arms around and holding him in his place.
“A minnit more, ye fool!” was the hurried though not very complimentary speech hissed into O’Neil’s ear. “Hev patience one minnit, and she’ll coflumix right into yur arms, like a barked squirrel from the branch o’ a tree. Hish!”
The last exclamation was simultaneous with a movement on the part of the Indian who had been left in charge of the captive. In obedience to the hurried order of his chief, the savage had taken the bridle of her horse, and commenced leading the animal down the slope in the direction of the ravine, his eyes straying over the ground of the encampment.
Before entering the gap, he looked ahead! The silence there seemed somewhat to astonish him. It was strange there was no movement. He could see several of his comrades lying upon the grass, and others standing over the captives, these still in their planes just as he remembered them, when starting forth on the pursuit.
The Indians upon the ground seemed natural enough. They were those who had drunk too freely of the white man’s fire-water. But the guards standing erect – leaning upon their long lances – it was odd they should be so silent, so motionless! He knew his comrades to be trained to a certain stoicism; but, considering the exciting scenes that had occurred, this was beyond expectation.
For all, the thing caused him no suspicion. How could he have a thought of what had transpired in his absence?
He advanced without further pause, leading the captive’s horse, till he had passed through the gap of the gorge. Whether he then saw enough to tell him of the trap into which he had fallen can never be known. If he did, he had no time either to reflect upon or escape from it. A man, gliding silently out from the bushes, sprang like a panther upon the croup of his horse; and before he could turn to see who thus assailed him, a bowie-knife had gone deep into his dorsal ribs, causing him to drop dead to the ground without uttering a groan!
It was the bowie-knife of old ’Lije Orton that had inflicted the fatal stab.
At the same instant another man, rushing out from the same cover, clasped the captive girl in his arms, and tenderly lifted her from the saddle.
She was surprised, but not terrified. There could be no more terror there. If there had, it would have passed in a moment, when in her deliverer she recognised one who, for five long years, had been alike the torture and solace of her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Scene Re-arranged
Edward O’Neil held Clara Blackadder in his arms. He now knew she loved and had been true to him, though not from any words that had passed between them.
There was scarce time for them to do more than pronounce one another’s names; but the glance exchanged was eloquent to the hearts of both. Each saw in the other’s eyes that the old fondness was still there, strengthened, if aught changed, by the trials through which they had passed.
Almost on the instant of their coming together they were again parted by the trappers; who, with ’Lije Orton and Black Harris directing them, had hastily commenced rearranging the ambuscade. Every moment they might expect the return of the Indians. A scout, who had hurried up to the crest of the ridge, telegraphed back why the savages had ridden off.
With the quick perception common to men of their calling, they at once understood all. They remembered that in their haste they had but slightly secured their horses. Something, some sort of wild beast, perhaps a grizzly bear, had got among them, causing the stampede. It was an occurrence not new to them.
It only increased their thirst for vengeance against the detested Cheyennes, and made them more than ever determined on a wholesale destruction of the predatory band.
“Let’s rub them out, every redskin of them!” was the counsel passed around.
“We must get back our horses anyhow!”
“We’ll do thet,” said Orton, “an’ thar horses, too, to redemnify us for the trouble. But, boyees, ’t won’t do to go foolich about it. Though thar’s no fear o’ these hyur skunks tellin’ tales, we must take percaushuns for all that. This nigger wants proppin’ up like the rest o’ ’em. When that air done, we’ll be riddy to gie ’em thar recepshun.”
The others knew what ’Lije meant, and hastened to reset the stage for the next scene of the sanguinary drama.
While the scout on the crest of the ridge kept them warned as to the movements of the Indians, the others were busy placing the tableau that was to greet them on their return. The young lady was directed to assume a half-recumbent attitude on the grass – her horse still saddled standing near. Close by, propped up, was the dead body of the savage to whose keeping she had been entrusted; not seeming dead, but life-like by the side of his own horse, as if still keeping guard over the captive. All was arranged in less than ten minutes of time. These rude mountain men are ready at such ruses. No wonder their wits should be quick and keen; their lives often depend upon the successful execution of such schemes.
They found time to make many changes in the arrangement previously made. In their haste the stage had not been set to their satisfaction. The other dead sentinels were placed in attitudes more life-like and natural, and all traces of the brief struggle were carefully blotted out or removed. The captives, both white and black, were cautioned to keep their places, and instructed how to act, in case of any unforeseen accident causing a change in the carrying out of the programme.
When everything was fixed to their satisfaction, the trappers returned to their ambush; as before, distributing themselves into two parties – one for each side of the gorge. A vidette was still kept upon the top of the ridge, though not the man first deputed for the performance of this duty. There were now two of them – Black Harris and ’Lije Orton.
It was an interval of strange reflection with the young Irishman, O’Neil. Before his eyes – almost within reach of his arms – upon the grassy sward, he saw lying that fair form which for long absent years had remained vividly outlined in his memory. How he longed to go nearer and embrace her! And all the more, that he could perceive her glance turned toward the spot where he lay concealed, as if endeavouring to penetrate the leafy screen that separated them. How he longed for the final event that would terminate this red tragedy, and bring them together again, in life never more to be parted! It was a relief, as well as joy to him, when his old comrade, Orton, close followed by Black Harris, was seen hastily descending the slope, their gestures showing that the horse-hunt was over, and the savages were riding back toward the encampment.
“Now, boyees!” said ’Lije, gliding to both sides of the gorge, and addressing the trappers in a cautious undertone, “ef ye’ll jest keep yerselves purfectly cool for about ten minutes longer, an’ wait till ye git the word from Black Harry or myself, ye’ll have a chance o’ wipin’ out any scores ye may hev run up ’twixt yur-selves an’ Yellow Chief. Don’t neer a one o’ ye touch trigger till the last of the cussed varmints hev got clar past the mouth o’ this hyur gully. An’ then wait till ye hear the signal from me. It’ll be the crack o’ my rifle. Arter thet, the Injuns aint like to hev any chief; an’ ye kin go in, an’ gie ’em eturnal darnation.”
In ten seconds after he had ceased speaking not a trapper was to be seen near the Indian encampment; only the captives with their sentinels standing over them, surrounded by a stillness as of death. It was like the ominous calm that comes between two gusts of a storm, all the more awful from the contrasting silence.
