Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 78) (1879 01 21)
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KA srt Vi Sl Ll Vt lL Til OL thigon Single Number. Blue The Yellow Chief's Vengeance, A Romance of the Rocky Mountains. BY CAPT. MAYNE REID, AUTHOR OF THE ‘'SCALP-HUNTERS,”’ ETC., ETC. CHAPTER I. THE PUNISHMENT OF THE PUMP. ‘To the pump with him! and see that he has a double dose of it!” The words were spoken in a tone of command, earnest and angry. ‘They were addressed to the overseer of a cotton-plantation not far from Vicksburg, in the State of Mississippi, the | speaker being Blount Blackadder, a youth aged eighteen, and son to Squire Blackadder, the owner of the plantation. Who was to receive the double douche? Near by stood a personage to whom the words ! y iy i i Wei \ 1) | Wee 4, NT AS UN t We (olllellaliallal pled 3 ww ol ea a a Copyrighted in 1879, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, No. 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK. evidently pointed. very different in either age or size from him who had given the order; though his tawny different race—in short, a mulatto. time—for it is a tale of twenty years ago—alon with other attendant circumstances, proclaime him a slave of the plantation. punishment, of course. You may smile at the idea, and deem it a joke. But the ‘‘punishment of the pump” is one of the most severe that cam be inflicted; far more so than either the bastinado or castigation by the lash. A man may writhe while his back is being scored by the cowskin; but that con- tinuous stream of cold water, at first only re- freshing, becomes after a time almost unendur- able, and the victim feels as though his skull were being split open with an ax. What had “ Blue Dick ”—the quet of the young mulatto—what had he done to deserve such chastisement? The overseer, hesitating to inflict it, put this | smiles Blue question to Blount Blackadder. —=—.. _- = oe oo BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, | He was also a youth, not _— aN S < \ ATU Sy 4 I hak AW. OBR=So AMIS. ‘ ‘ \ 4 N \. \ 5 Cents. ts No. 78. Enough when I say he has deserved Snively. i darn me if he don’t have it. To the it: anc ; | pump with him!” skin and short ss per hair bespoke him of a | c And the | “Your father won’t be yursued the overseer. ome—” ‘‘When he comes home; that’s my affair. pleased about. it,” ‘When he comes | He’s not at home now, and during his absence And why ordered to be thus served? Asa | | sir, you’ll recognize me as such.” | did not condescend to explain. | passion that rendered him reticent; but a secret’ I’m master of this plantation, I guess. I hope, ‘*Oh, sartinly,” grumbled the overseer. ‘* Well, then, I have only to tell you tha* the nigger’s got to be punished. He’s done enowgh to deserve it. Let that satisfy you; and forthe rest I'll be answerable to my father,” What Blue Dick had done the young planter or was it his | consciousness that he was himself in the wrong, lantation sobri- | and acting from motives of the meanest re- venge. They had their origin in jealousy. There was a quadroon girl apes the plantation to whose ick aspired. But they were | also coveted by his young master—the master ““That’s my business and not yours, Mr. ' of both. “Shs ee
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* “honest love ‘\against the threats of authority. Toe i ary. ° In such « rivalry the end is easily told. The of Blue Dick was doomed to a harsh disappointment; for Sylvia, the quadroon, had vieided her heart less to the dictates of natural | presi than to the combined influence of vanity and power. It was a tale oft told in t.:0sa days of the so-styled patriarchal institu- tation—happily now at an end. Maddened by the discovery of his sweetheart’s defection, the young mulatto could not restrain himself from recrimination. A collision had oecurred. between.him.and his..master’s. son. fuere had been words and threatened blows, quickly succeeded by the scene we are de- scribing. Mr. Snively was not.the man to hold out long His place was 90 precious to be risked by an act of idle chiv- What to him was the punishment of a wlave—a ceremony at which he was accustomed to assist almost every day of his life? Besides, 'e had no particular liking for Blue Dick, who vras regarded by him as a “sassy fellow.” <As- sired against blame from Squire Blackadder, he was only too ready to cause execution of the erder. He proceeded to do sv. The scene was transpirmg in an open court- yard to the rear of the ‘‘ big house,” adjoining also to the stables. On one side stood the pump, tall obelisk of oak, with its massive arm of iron, and spout five feet above the level of the pavement. Underneath traversed a trough, the hollowed trunk of a tree, designed for the water- “a ality, * ing of the horses.. In the hot summer sun of the Mississippi val- lay if should have been a sight to give gladness tothe eye. Not so with the slaves on Squire Blackadder’s plantation. To them it was more suggestive of sadness and fear; and they were accustomed to regard it with the same feelings as one who looks upon a gallows, or a guil- lotiine. More than half their number had, one time or another, satunder that spout till its chilly jet seemed like a sharp spear piercing their wool- covered crania. The punishment of the pump was too frequent on {jquire Blackadder’s plantation to need min- ue directions as to the mode of administering it. Mr. Snively had only to repeat the order re- ecived, to some half-dozen stalwart slaves, who stood around ready to execute it. The more ready, that Blue Dick was now to be the victim; for, even with these, the mulatto youth was far from being a favorite. Full of conceit on ac- coaut of his clearer skin, he had always shown himself too proud to associate with them, and was thus deprived of their sympathies. It was his first punishment, too; for, although he had often before offended in a different way, Squire Blackadder had refrained from chastis- iy; him. it was thought strange by all, though none Ikuow the reasons; and this immunity of which ke had been accustomed to boast, rendered his now threatened punishment a thing for his fel- low slaves to rejoice at. They who were ordered to administer it, went a} out their work with a will. At a sign from the overseer, Blue Dick was seized by two of the fickl hands, and dragged up to the pump. With cords procured from the adjacent stable, he was lndhed to the trough in Aa» a position that his erewn came directly under the spout, eighteen i»ches below it. By stays stretching right and left, his head was so confined that he could not turn it an inch one way or the other. To have attempted moving it, would have been to tight- en the noose, by which the rope was rove around his neck. “Now, give him his shower-bath!” vocifer- ated young Blackadder to the huge negro who Steodt by the handle of the pump. The man, a savage-looking monster, who had himself more than once been submitted toa sim- ilar ducking, obeyed the order with a gleeful grin. The iron lever, rattling harsh upon its pivot, moved rapidly up and down; the trans- lucent jet shot forth from the spout, and fell plzshing upon the skull beneath. re The bystanders laughed, and to the victim it would yet have been only pleasant play; but among those who were jeering him was Sylvia the quadroon! All were abroad—both the deni- rens of the negro quarter, and the domestics of ‘the house—spectators of his suffering and his shame. {ven Clara Blackadder, the sister of his ty- rout torturer—a young lady of about twenty summers, with all the seeming graces of an an- gel—stood on the back porch igen po the seene with as much indifference as if, from the box of a theater, she had been looking upon ¢’"ne mere spectacle of the stage. : : If she felt interest in it, it arose from no sym- pathy with the sufferer. On the face of her brother was an expression of interest vivid and pronounced. His features bespoke joy—the joy of a malignant soul in- dulging in revenge. It was a sad picture, that presented by these two young men—the one exulting in es gee power, the other suffering torture through its exercise. It was.but the old and oft-repeated tableau of master and slave. And yet they were strangely alike, both in form and feature. tracted from his skin, and the curl combed out of his hair, Blue Dick might have passed for a brother of Blount Blackadder. He would have been a little better looking, and certainly show- | ing a countenance of less sinister cast. Perhaps not at that moment; for as the agony of physical pain became added to the mental anguish he was enduring, his features assumed an expression truly diabolical. Even the jet of water, spreading like a vail over them, did not hide from the spectators the fiend-like glance with which he regarded his oppressor. Through the diaphanous sheet they could see white lips tightly compressed against whiter teeth, that grinned defiance and vengeance, as his eyes rested on Sylvia. He uttered no groan; neither did he sue for mercy ; though the torture he was enduring caused him to writhe within the ropes, at the risk of their throttling him. There were few present who did not know that he was suffering extremo pain, and many of them from self-experience. nd it was only when one of these, stirred by vivid memories, ventured to murmur some slight words of ex- postulation, that the punishment was suspended. ‘*He’s had enough, I reckon?” said Snively, turning interrogatively toward the young plant- er. “No, darn him! not half anough,” was the reply; ‘‘you haven’t given him the double. But never mind! 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!” Saying this, Blount Blackadder turned care- lessly on his heel, and went off to join his sister in the porch—leaving the overseer to release the sufferer at his discretion. The iron handle discontinued its harsh grat- ing; the cruel spout ceased to pour, and Blue Dick, disengaged from his garote, was carried | fainting to the stable. But he was never again subjected to the pun- ishment of the pump. The young planter did not have a chance tocarry out his threat. Three days after Blue Dick disappeared from the plan- tation. And on the morning of that day, al- most simultaneous with his disappearance, was found the body of the quadroon girl Sylvia, at the bottom of the peach-orchard, her head split | open to the chin! It had been done with the blade of a wood-ax. There was no mystery about the matter—no speculation as to the author of the deed. The antecedent circumstances pointed directly to Blue Dick; and he was at once sought for. Sought for but not found. As soon as the hue- and-cry had gone abroad, the surrounding set- tlers, planters as well as poor whites, sprung to their arms and into their saddles. The blood- mastiffs were put upon Blue Dick’s track; but spite their keen scent for such game, and the energetic urging of their owners, rec never set fang in the flesh of the mulatto murderer. CHAPTER II. THE BLACKADDERS. In the time preceding the extinction of slav- ery, there was no part of the United States where its chain was so galling as in that region lying along the Mississippi, known as the “ Coast.” More cially was this true of the State of Mississippi itself. In the older terri- tories, east of the Alleghany range, the ‘‘insti- tution” was tempered with a touch of the eo: and the same might be said of entucky and Tennessee. Even in parts of Louisiana the mild, indolent habits of the Creole had a softening influence on the condition of the slave. But it was different on the also portions of the Lousiana coast; many of whose owners were only half the year residents, and where the management of the negro was in- trusted to the overseer—an irresponsible, and, in many cases, severe taskmaster. And among the owners themselves was a large number— the majority in fact—not born upon the soil; but colonists from all countries, who had gone thither, often with broken fortunes, and not un- frequently characters as well. reat cotton | and tobacco plantations of the Mississippi, as | With the ocherous tint ex- ; either of his happiness or welfare, but the work to be got out of him. It would be a mistake to say that Mississip- ian planters were all of this class; as it would also erroneous to suppose that Southern mas- ters in general were yo humane than other men. There is no denying them a certain gene- rosity of character; and many among them were philanthropists of the first class. It was the institution itself that cursed them; and brought up under its influence, they thought | and acted wrongly; but not worse, I fear, than you or I would have done had we been living under the same lights. Unfortunately, humane men were exceptions among planters of the lower Mississippi; and so bad was the reputation of this section of the South, that to have threatened a Virginia negro —or even one of Kentucky or Tennessee—with sale or expulsion thither, was sufficient at any time to make him contented with his task. The word “coast” was the begey of negro boyhood, and the terror of his manhood. Planter Blackadder, originally from the State of Delaware, was among the men who had con- tributed to this evil reputation. He had mi- grated to ofgmene at an early period of his life, making a purchase of some cheap land on a tract ceded by the Choctaws. A poor man at the period of his migration, he had never risen toa high rank among the planter aristocracy of the State. But just for this reason did he avail himself of what appeared, to a mind like his, the real privilege of the order—a despotic bearing toward the sable-skinned helots whose evil star had guided them into his hands. In the case of many of them, their own. evil char- acter had something to do in conducting them thither; for planter Blackadder was accustomed to buy his negroes cheap, and his “ stock” was regarded as one of the worst, in the section of country in which his plantation was ‘‘ljocated.” Despite their bad repute, however, there was work in them; and no man knew better than Squire Blackadder how to take it ouv. If their sense of duty was not sufficient to keep them to their tasks, there wasa lash to hinder them from lagging; held ever ready in the hands of a man who had no*disposition to spare it. This was Snively, the overseer, who, like the squire him- self, hailed from Delaware State. Upon the Blackadder plantation was punish- ment enough, and of every kind known to the skin of the negro. At times there was even mutilation—of the milder type—extending be- neath his skin. If Pomp or Scip tried to escape work by shamming a toothache, the tooth was instantly extracted, though not the slightest sign of decay might be detected in the ‘ ivory!” Inder such rigid discipline, the Blackadder jlantation should have thrived and its owner ecome a wealthy man. No doubt he would have done so, but for an outlet on the other side, that, dissipating the profits, kept him com- paratively poor. The * ag em i ” was the squire’s own and only son, Blount, who had grown up what is termed a wild fellow. He was not only wild, but wicked; and what, perhaps, grieved his father far more, he had of late years become ruinously expensive. He kept low company preferring the “‘ white trash ”; fought cocks, and played “‘ poker” with them in the woods; and in a patronizing way, attended all the “candy polines ” and ‘‘ blanket trampings,” for ten miles aroun The squire could not be otherwise than in-: dulgent to a youth of such tastes, who was his only son and heir. In boyhood’s days he had done the same himself. For this reason his purse-strings, held tight against all others, were loosened to his hopeful son, Blount, even to aiding him in his evil courses. He was less generous to his daughter Clara, a girl gifted with great beauty, as also endowed with many of those moral graces so becoming to woman. True, it was she who had stood in the porch while Blue Dick was undergoing the punishment of the pump. And itis true, also, that she ex- hibited but slight sympathy with the sufferer. Still was there something to palliate this appar- ent hardness of heart: she was not fully aware of the terrible pain that was being inflicted; and it was her father’s fault, not hers, that she was accustomed to witness such scenes weekly, almost daily. Under other tutelage, Clara Blackadder might have grown up a young lady, good as she was graceful; and under other cir- _ cumstances been happier_than she was on the day she was seen to such disadvantage. That, at this time, a cloud overshadowed her | fate, was evident from that overshadowing her | at —
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face; for on looking upon it, no one could mis- take its expression to be other than sadness. The cause was simple, as it is not uncommon. The lover of her choice was not the choice of her father. A youth, poor in purse, but rich in almost every other quality to make man esteemed—of handsome person, and mind adorned with rare cultivation—a stranger in the land—in short, a young Irishman, who had strayed into Mississippi, nobody knew wherefore or when. Such was he who had won the friend- ship of Clara Blackadder, as the enmity both of her brother and father. In heart accepted by her—though her lips dared not declare it—he was rejected by them, in words scornful, almost insulting. They were sufficient to drive him away from the State, for the girl, constrained by parental authority, had not spoken plain enough to retain him. And he went as he had come, no one knew whither; and perhaps only Clara Black- | adder cared. As she stood in the porch, she was thinking more of him than the punishment that was being inflicted on Blue the day after, when her maid Cynthia was dis- covered dead under the trees, did the dread spectacle drive from her thoughts the remem- brance of a man lodged there for life! As the overseer had predicted, Squire Black- adder, on his return home, was angry at the chastisement that had been inflicted on Blue Dick, and horrified on hearing of the tragedy that succeeded it. The sins of his own earlier life seemed rising in retribution against him! CHAPTER [I. A CHANGED PLANTATION, WE pass over a period of five years succeed- ing the scene veoseaed. uring this time there was but little change ick; and not even on | 3 Blue Dick. | far more than its auriferous riches, that attracted planter Blackadder to its plains—this and the necessity of escaping from the too respectable society that had sprung up around him in the ‘* Choctaw Purchase.” He had not taken departure alone. Three or four other families, not very dissimilar either in circumstances or character, had gone off along with him. Let us follow upon their track. Though three months have elapsed since their leaving the eastern side of the Mississippi, we shall be in | | knew of its existence; and, as they gathereé | time to overtake them; for they are still wend- | ing their slow and weary way across the grand prairie. The picture presented by an emigrating party is one long since become common: yet never | san it be regarded without a degree of interest. It appeals to a pleasant sentiment, recalling the earliest, and our history. The huge Conestoga wagon, with its canvas tilt bleached to a snowy whiteness by | many a storm of rain, not inappropriately styled the “ship of the prairies”; its miscella- neous load of tools and utensils, with house fur- | niture and other Penates, keeping alive the re- membrance of the home left behind, still more forcibly brought to mind by those dear faces half hid under the screening canvas; the sun- tanned and stalwart horsemen, with guns on shoulder, riding in advance or around it; and if a southern migration, the sable cohort forming its sure accompaniment, all combine to forma tableau that once seen will ever be remem- bered. And just such a picture was that presented by the migrating party of Mississippi planters, en route for far California. It was a ‘‘ caravan” of the smaller kind—only six wagons in all— with eight or ten white men for its escort. The on the pace of Squire Blackadder; either | in the dwellers on the estate or the administra- tion of its affairs. Neither castigation by the cowskin, nor the punishment of the pump, was discontinued. as ever; and whatever of work could by such means be extracted from human muscles, was taken out of the unhappy slaves, who called Mr. Snively their ‘‘ obaseeah.” Withal, the planta- tion did not prosper. Blount, plunging yet deeper into dissipation, drained it of every dol- lar of its profits, intrenching even on the standard value of the estate. The number of its hands had become reduced, till there was scarce Both were frequent and severe | enougb left for its cultivation; and despite the | constant cracking of Mr. Snively’s whip, weeds began to show themselves in the cotton-fields, and decay around the ‘ gin-houses.” At the end of these five years, however, came a change, complete as it was cheerful. The buildings underweut repair, ‘‘ big house” journey was full of danger, and they knew this who had undertaken it. But their characters had hindered them from increasing their num- ber; and, in the case of more than one, the dan- ger left behind was almost as’ much dreaded as any that might be before them. They were following one of the. old ‘ trails” of the traders, at that time becoming used by the emigrants, and especially those from the south-western States. It was the route running up the Arkansas to Bent’s Fort, and thence striking northward along the base of the Rocky Mountains to the pass known as ‘ Bridger’s.” At that time the pass and the trails on both sides of it were reported ‘‘safe.” That is, safe by comparison. The Indians had been awed by a sight unusual to them—the passage their territory of large bodies of United States troops—Doniphan’s expedition to New Mexico, | with those of Cooke and Kearney to California, as well as out-offices; while the crops, once more | carefully cultivated, presented a flourishing ap- pearance. In the courtyard and negro-quarters the change was still more striking. Instead of sullen faces, and skins gray with dandruff, or browned with dirt, ill-concealed under the tat- tered copperas-stripe, could now be seen smiling countenances, with clean white shirts covering an epidermis that shone with the hue of health. Instead of profane language and loud threats, often followed by the lash, could be heard the twanging of the banjo, accompanied by its simple song, and the cheerful voice of Sambo excited in “ chaff,” or light-hearted laughter. The change is easily explained. It was not the same Sambo, nor the same “ obaseeah,” nor et the same massa. The whole personnel of @ place was different. A planter of the patri- archal type had succeeded to the haga and Squire Disckadder was gone away, few of his neighbors knew whither, and fewer cared. By his cruelty he had lost caste, as by the courses pursued by his son—the latter having almost brought him to bankruptcy. this, he had sold his plantation, though still re- taining his slaves—most of them being unsal- able on account of their well-known wicked- ness, Taking these along with him, he had “ started west.” To one emigrating from the banks of the Missis- sippi, this may seem an_unfitting expression. But at the time a new ‘‘ West” and a “far” one To escape | For ashort interval it had restrained them from their attacks upon the traders’ caravans; even from the assassination of the lonely trap- per. | As none of Blackadder’s party was either had just entered on the stage of colonization, | It was called California, a country at that time little known; for it had lately come into the possession of the United States, and the report | of its golden treasures, although on the way, had not yet reached the meridian of the Missis- | sippi. t was its grand agricultural wealth, worth | | reached Bent’s Fort in safety. | the fort—a Choctaw who spoke a little | was engaged to conduct them northward to the very brave, or very reckless, they were pro- ceeding with great caution, keeping scouts in the advance by day, and guards around the camp by night. And thus, watchful and wary, had they Thence an In- dian hunter who chanced to be hanging around nglish— Pass; and, resuming their journey under his guidance, they had reached Bijou Creek, a trib- utary of the Platte, and one of the most beauti- ful streams of prairie land. They had formed their encampment for the night, after the fashion practiced upon the prai- ries—with the wagons locked tongue and wheel, inclosing a hollow space—the corral—so called | after a word brought by the prairie merchahts from New Mexico. The travelers were more than usually cheer- ful. The great chain of the Rocky Mountains was in sight, with Long’s Peak raising its snow- covered summit, like a vast beacon-star to wel- come, and show them they way, into the land of od ei that lay beyond it. They Pepevieds moreover, to reach St. Vrain’s Fort, by the evening of the next day: where, safe from Indian attack, and relieved from camp watching, they could once more rest and recruit themselves. But_in that hour of relaxation, while they were looking at Long’s Peak, its snowy crown still gilded by the rays of the setting sun, there was a cloud coming from that same quarter that threatened to overwhelm them. It was not the darkening of the night, nor mist from the mountain-sides; but a dusky | shadow more to be feared than either. erhaps most romantic period of | They had no fear of it. They neither saw, nor ' around their camp-fire to make their evening repast, they were as gay as such men might be expected to be, under similar circumstances. To many of them it was the last meal they were ever destined to eat; as was that night the last of their lives. Before another sun shone upon Long’s Peak, one-half their number was sleeping the sleep of death—their corraled wa- gons inclosing a space afterward to beeeme their cemetery. CHAPTER IV. A PAINTED PARTY. AnovutT five miles from the spot upon which the emigrants were encamped, and almost af the same hour, another party had pitched their tents upon the plain, There was not the slightest resemblance be- tween the two sets of travelers, either in per- sonal appearance, in the language spoken, or im their camp-equipments. The latter were all horsemen, unincumbered with wagons, and without even the impediment of tents. On dismounting they had simply staked their horses on the grass, and lain down upon their buffalo-robes, that were to serve them both as shelter and for couches. There were about two score of them in al; and all without exception were men. Not @ woman or child was among them. They were young men, too; though to this there were sev~ eral exceptions. To have told the color of their skins, it would | have been necessary to submit them to ablution; since that portion of it not covered by a breech- clout with legging continuations of leather, was so besmeared with paint that not a spot of the natural tint could be detected. After this, it is scarcely necessary to say that they were Indians; or to add that their painted bodies, nude from neck to waist, proclaimed them ‘on the war-trail.” There were other evidences of this, in the manner in which they were armed, Most of them carried guns. On a hunting excursion they would have had bows and arrows—the prairie tribes prefer these weapons in the chase. Chey had their spears, too, slung Jance-fashion by the side of the saddle; with tomahawks stuck in their belts. All of them were furnished with the lazo, Among them was one sufficiently conspicuous to be at once recognized as their chief. His su | perior dress and adornment told of his title te through | | those of a young man, who, but for the di this distinction; while there was that in his bearing toward the others, that placed it beyond doubt. They seemed not only to fear, but re- spect him; as if something more than the acci- dent of hereditary rank gave him a claim to command them. And he on his side seemed to rule them; not despotically, but with a firmness of tone and bearing that brooked no disobedience. On alighting from his horse on the spot selected for their camp, the animal was unsaddled by an- other, and taken away to the pasturing place; while the chief himself, doffing a splendid cloak of white wolf-skins, spread it on the grass, and lay down upon it. en taking a pipe frdm his embroidered pouch, and lighting it, he seem ed to give himself up to solitary meditation—as if he had no need to take further trouble about the affairs of the camp, and none of the others would venture to intrude upon his privacy. None did, save his immediate attendant, who brought him his supper, after it had been pre- red, and assisted also in arranging his sleep- ing-place. etween him and his attendant not a word was exchanged, and only a few with one of the others. They related to setting the camp-sen- tinels, with some instructions about a scout that might be expected to come in during the night. After that the chief stretched himself along his robe, refilled the pipe with fresh tobaces taken from his pouch, and for some time lay smoking with his eyes fixed upon the moon) Her light, resplendent in the pure atmosphere of the upland prairies, falling full upon him, splayed a figure of fine proportions—indicat- ing both toughness and strength. As to the face, nothing could have been told of it, even if it had been seen under sunlight Striped with vermilion on a ground of ocherous earth, with strange devices on forehead and cheeks, it resembled a painted escutcheon more than a human face. he features. however showing a certain rotundity, told them to be uring of the paint, might have appeared hanc- |} Some, Still, there was something in his eyes, as they
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} gianced under the silvery moonlight, that be- trayed an evil disposition. No water couid nave | washed out of them that cast at once sinister and sad. It was strange that one sco youthfui—ifor ue seemed certainly not over twenty-five—could have obtained such control over the turbulent | spirits around him. One and ali of them, Roan also young, were evidently of this char- y acter. He was either the son of some chief long and universally venerated, or a youthful brave who had performed feats of valor entitling him to respect. The band, over which he exercised sway, eould be only an expeditionary party belonging to some one of the large prairie tribes; and the material composing it pointed to its being one of those roving troops of young and reckless braves, often encountered upon the plains—the terror of trappers and traders. There was something unusual in this chief of youthful mien, keeping apart from his com- grades, and holding them in such control. While they were carousing around their camp- fire, he was quietly smoking his oe and after they had gone to sleep, he was still seen lying wide awake upon his wolf-skins! It was a singular place in which he and his followers had encamped; a spot romantically picturesque. It wasin a gorge or glen forming a flat meadow of about six acres in extent, and eovered with grass of the short grama speeies. Tt was inclosed on three sides by a bluff rising sheer up from the plain, and bisected by the tiniest of streams, whose water came spout-like ever the precipice, with a fall of some twenty feet. On the side open toward the east could be obtained a clear view of the prairie, undu- lating away to the banks of the Bijou Creek. With the moon shining down on the soft grassy sward; the Indian horses ger Sate and grazing on it; the warriors lying asleep upon their robes; the stream glistening like a serpent as it swept silently past them; the cascade sparkling above; and around the dark framing of cliffs; you have a picture of Rocky Mountain life, that, though rare to you, is common to those who have traversed that region of romance. It did not appear to have any charm for the young chief, whe lay stretched upon the wolf- skins. Evidently thinking of something else, he took no note of the scenery around him, fur- ther than now and then to raise himself upon his elbow, and gaze for a time toward that por- ‘tion of it that was least picturesque; the mono- *#onous surface of the plain stretching eastward. That he was scanning it not for himself, but for something he expected to appear upon it, would have been made manifest to one who could have known his thoughts. Expressed in English they would have run thus: ‘““Waboga should have been here by this. I wonder what’s detaining him. He must have seen our signal, and should know where to find | ws. Maybe that moon hinders him from steal- fing a horse out of their camp. As their guide they ought to trust him to go anywhere. —this night. Oh! what a sweet vengeance! But the sweeter, if I can only take them alive— emeand all! Then indeed shall I have true re- sence! “What can be keeping the Choctaw? I should mot have trusted him, but that he speaks the white man’s tongue. They’d have suspected any other. He’s stupid, and may spoil my ens, I want them—must have them alive / “Now, if he should turn traitor and put them on their guard? Perhaps take them on to the fort? No—no; he would not do that. He hates the white man much as I myself, and with mearly as good reason. Besides, he dare not do ®. if he did—” ; The soliloquy of the recumbent chief was sud- denly interrupted, and his thoughts diverted into a different channel, by a sound reachin his ear, that seemed to come from the distan irie. It was hoof-stroke of a horse; but so int, that only a practiced ear could have beard, much less make out what was causing it. 9, In an instant he had changed his attitude, and Wy with cheek closely pressed to the turf. In anotier instant he muttered to himself: ‘« \ horse—a single horse—must be the Choc- taw 1”? Vell, / gome he or not, I shall attack them all the same | He raised himself upon his knees and looked | out over the plain. A low ridge ran obliquely | wp to the mouth of the gorge in which the Indi- | ans were reposing There was a clump of bush- @s upon its crest; and over the tops of these he eould perceive a small disk, darker than the foliage. He knew it had not been there before. While he was scanning it, there came, as if e@ut of the bushes, three short barks followed by | the others. Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. A --—- Sareea —_____——__—_—__ a long, lugubrious howl. It seemed the cry of | The spot selected, or rather to which their In-~ the prairie-wolf. But he knew it was not this; for it was repeated with a diiferent intoning. Simultaneously with the second utterance, a simiiar cry was sent backas if in answer. It | was the response of the camp-guard, who was keeping watch among the horses. And in this there was an intonation different from any of It was evidently understood by him who had signaled from without, and told him he might safely approach: for the instant after the dark spot above the bushes was seen moving along behind them; and presently appeared by the side of the clump in the shape of aman on horseback. It was a horseman in the garb of a white hunter; but the moon falling full upon his face, ! | showed the copper-colored skin of an Indian, He rode forward to the edge of the camp; ex- changed some words in a low tone with the horse-guard, that had answered his signal; and then came toward the chief, who had risen to receive him. The salutation told him to be the Choctaw so impatiently expected. ““Waboga has delayed long,” said the chief, half reproachfully. ‘‘ It isnow after midnight. He knows we must make our attack before morning.” **The Yellow chief need not be troubled about the time. The sleeping-place of the white trav- elers is near at hand. It will take but an hour to reach it. Waboga was detained against his will.” “ Ha! how?” ‘*The pale-faces had grown suspicious, and watched him. Some trappers, on their way to St. Vrain’s fort, came up with the emigrant train after sunrise, and stayed with it till the noon halt. They must have said somethin against the guide. All day after, Waboga could see that the white men were watching him.” “Then they are not encamped where I wished them?” ‘*They are. The Yellow chief may rest sure of it. They were not so suspicious as that; but allowed the guide to conduct them to their sleeping-place. It is in the creek bend where Waboga was instructed to take them.” ‘*Good! And their numbers?” ‘‘Nine white men in all—with their women and children. Of the blacks about five times as many—men, squaws, and pappooses.” ‘‘No matter for them. Describe the whites.” ‘‘ The chief of the caravan, a man of middle- ae planter. Waboga well knows his kind. He remembers them when a boy dwelling be- yond the Big river—in the land of which his people have been despoiled.” “A planter. Any family with him?’ ‘* A son, who has seen some twenty-four sum- mers—like the father in every thing but age; a daughter, grown to a woman—not like either. She is fair as a flower of the prairie.” “Tt is she—it is they!’ muttered the chief to himself, his eyes glistening in the moonlight with an expression at once triumphant and dia- bolical. ‘‘Oh! ‘twill be a sweet revenge!” ‘*Of the other whites,” continued the Choc- taw, ‘‘one is a tall man, who has much to do with the management. He acts under the or- ders of the ep He carries a great whip, and often uses it on the shoulders of his black slaves.” ‘‘He shall have his punishment, too. But not for that. They deserve it.” “The other six white men are—” ‘‘No matter; only tell me how they are armed. Will they make resistance?” Waboga did not think they would—not much. He believed they would let themselves be taken alive. ‘*Enough!” exclaimed the Cheyenne chief— for it was to this tribe the Indian belonged. ‘‘The time .has come. Go wake our warriors, and hold yourself ready to guide us.” Then, turning upon his heel, he commenced thering up his arms, that lay scattered around the robe on which he had been reposing. His body-servant, already aroused, was soon in attendance upon him: while the slumbering warriors, one after another, startled from sav- age dreams, sprung to their feet, and hurried toward their horses. The best-drilled squadron of light cavalry could not have got half so quickly into their saddles, as did this painted troop of Cheyennes. In less than ten minutes after receiving the command to march, they were beyond the | bounds of their bivouac—equipped for any kind of encounter. CHAPTER V. A TRAITOROUS GUIDE. As already known, the emigrants had corraled their wagons on the banks of Bijou Creek. dian guide had conducted them, was in a bend | of the stream, that looped around the encamp- ment in the shape of a horse’s shoe. It inclosed an area of some four or five acres of grassy ground—resembling a new-mown meadow. With an eye to security, it could not, to all appearance, have been tter chosen. The creek, running sluggishly around the loop, was deep enough to foil any attempt at fording; while the narrow, isthmus-like neck could be defended with advantage. It had not been the choice of the travelers themselves, but of their Indian guide; who, as already stated, had pre- sented himself to them at Bent’s fort, and been engaged te conduct them through Bridger’s cl sxealig sce ~hite man’s tongue, though out indifferentiy, aii. ~ing a Choctaw, as he declared himself, they haa 1 suspicion of his honesty; until that very day, when a band of free trappers, who chanced to pass them on the route, and who knew something of the Indian’s character, had warned them to beware of him. They had obeyed the warning, se far as lay in the power of men so little acquainted with the prairies. And how could they suspect a guide, who had chosen for their night’s camping-place a spot that seemed the very place for their se- curity? How could they suppose that the deep, slow stream, running silently around them, could have been designed for any other purpose than that of defense? It never entered their minds to suppose it could be intended as a trap. Why should it? If any thing could have given them this thought, it would have been what they had heard from the trappers. Some of them had reflected upon the character given of their guide. But more discredited it, believing it to be only ill-will on the part of the whites toward the Indian—like themselves a hunter. Others a it was a trapper joke—a story told to scare em. There was something odd in the eagerness the Indian had shown in directing them to their resent camping-ground. It was some distance rom the traveled track, where they had seen other places that appeared sufficiently suitable. Why should he have taken the trouble to bring them to the bend of the creek? The man who made this reflection was Snive- ly, the overseer. Snively didn’t like the look of the ‘‘red-skin,” though he was a Choctaw, and spoke a little English. That he had come or- iginally from the other side of the Mississippi was not proof of his being honest; for Mr. Snive- ly had no great faith in the integrity of men hailing from the ‘‘ Choctaw Purchase ”—-what, ever the color of their skin, red, white, or black. His suspicions about the guide, communicated to his fellow-travelers, were adopted by severai of them, though not by their leader. Squire Blackadder scouted the idea of treason, as did also his son. Why should the Choctaw betray them? It was not as if he had been one of the prairie In- dians, and belonging to some predatcry band. He was merely a wanderer from his own tribe; who, in the reserve allotted to them west of Ar- kansas State, were now living as an inoffensive and half-civilized people. He could have nomo- tive in leading them astray, but the contrary. He was not to receive his recompense for acting as their guide, until after their arrival on the other side of the mountains. A good sum had been promised him. Was it likely he should do anything to forfeit it? So reasoned Squire Blackadder and many of the emigrants who ac- companied him. Snively and the others were not satisfied; and resolved to keep a sharp eye upon the Indian. But, watchful as they were from that time forward, they failed to see him, as he slipped out of their camp, near the mid-hour of night, taking song with him one of the best horses be- longing to the caravan! e must have got away by leading the ani- mal for scme distance along the edge of the stream, ccncealed under the shadow of the banks. Otherwise, on the open prairie, with the moon shining down upon its treeless sward, he could not have eluded the vigilance of the camp-guards, one of whom was Snively him. self. It was only by an accident that his departure was discovered, and just before daybreak. The horse he had taken chanced to be a mare, that some weeks before had dropped a foal. It was too fine a creature to be left behind upon the prairies, and had been therefore brought along with its dam. a. The colt, after a time missing its mother, ran hinnying about, till its cries of distress startled i the camp from its slumbers. Then a search on se
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a a coooCc a —— | all sides resulted in the universal conviction: | that their guide had betrayed him, or, at all events, had stolen off, taking the mare along with him! There was no more sleep for the eyes of the | emigrants. One and all ran wildly around the wagons—the whites meeting each other with | cautions and curses, alike contradictory; the blacks—men, women and children—huddling together, and giving voice to their fears in shrieks and chattering. And, in the midst of this confusion, a dark mass was seen moving across the prairie, upon | which the white light of the moon was already becoming blended with that of the gray dawn. At first it came slowly and silently, as though stealing toward the camp. Then, as if conceal- ment was no longer deemed necessary, the mass broke into a scattered cloud, showing it to be composed of horsemen. Their trampling sounded upon the turf, at the same time that a wild yell, issuing simultane- ously from three-score throats, struck terror into the hearts of the emigrants. There could be no mistaking that cry. It was the war-whoop of the Cheyennes. The travelers had no time to reflect upon it: it was the slogan of attack; and before they could think of any plan for defending them- | selvos, the dusky horsemen were near ati hand, | swooping down upon them like the breath of a tornado! The emigrants were not all cowards. Three or four were men of courage, and not the least | courageous was Snively, the overseer, Still was it more by a mechanical impulse, than any hope of successfully defending themselves, that they discharged their guns in the faces of the Se Ee foemen. t did not stay the impetuosity of the charge. Their shots were returned by a volley from the guns of their savage assailants, followed up by a thrusting of spears; and, in less than ten min- utes’ time, the corral was captured. When the day broke it disclosed a scene, since then, alas, far from unfrequent on the prairies. A wagon-train, with its tilts torn down, and the contents strewed around it; the cattle that had drawn it along standing near, and wonder- ing what had befallen it; their owners, in cap- tivity, some of them bound hand and foot, others lying lifeless upon the turf! Embracing all, a cohort of painted savages; some keeping guard over the captives, others indulging in an unchecked Saturnalia; some dead-drunk, others reeling in a state of half in- toxication—each with cup in hand, filled with the fire-water taken from the ce pinred wagons! Such was the spectacle on Bijou Creek on that morning, when the emigrant train of the ex-Mississippi planter fell into the hands of a war-party of Cheyennes, led by the Yellow Chief. CHAPTER VI. TWO TRAPPERS. THE gorge in which the young Cheyenne chief and his followers had made their night bivouac, was only one of a series of similar glens, that, with short intervals between, notched the foot of the sierra where it edged upon the open prairie. It was not the main chain of the Rocky Mountains, but a spur running out into the Pp ain. About a mile further along, and nearer to Bijou Creek, was another gorge, not very dis- similar in size, but somewhat different in char- acter. Instead of having an embouchure open to the plain, it was shut in on all sides by bluffs, rising abruptly above it to the hight of over a hundred feet. _There was an outlet, nevertheless; where a tiny spring-branch, gurgling forth from the bottom of the encircling cliffs, passed out into the open country, after making its way through @ cafion, which it had no doubt cut for itself in the course of countless ages. But as it needed a late 10 wider than might admit the body of a man, not much wider was it, from top to bottom of the cliff. A traveler might have passed within a hundred yards of its outer face looking toward the plain, without perceiving this break in the precipice, or taking it Only for a fissure in the facade of the rocks. The inclosed space inside, in one other respect differed from the glen that had been occupied by the Indians. Its bottom was thickly tim- bered by cottonwood and other trees; while along the ledges of the cliff, and wherever a crevice afforded root aecommodation, grew ptitons and the creeping cliff cedar. t seemed a favorite haunt for the owls and bats, but only at night. By day the birds ap- | peared to have full possession of it—filling it | | had of the “‘hole”; and to get this oe Blue Dick. with their sweet music,and fearing only the rapacious white-headed eagle, that occasionally ““whetted his saw” or laughed his maniac laugh, perched on the cliffs overhead. Only from the hights above could a view be climbing beyond any thing curiosity was likely to encourage. No prairie traveler would have taken the trouble, unless he chanced to be a German geologist, hammer in hand, or a botan- ist of the same inquiring race, in search of rare plants. Led by the love of science, these simple but ardent explorers go everywhere, into every cranny and corner of the earth—even the ‘*holes” of the Rocky Mountains, where often have their dead bodies been found, with heads stripped of their skins by the knife of the undis- criminating savage. Ascending the cliff from the outside, and looking down into the gorge described, you might fancy that no human being had ever entered it. To do so would cost some exertion. And some danger too: for there was a hun- dred feet of precipitous rock to be scaled down- ward at the risk of getting a broken neck. Some one had taken this risk, however: for on the same night in which the Cheyenne chief had sallied out to attack the emigrant camp, only a little later and nearer morning, a fire might have been seen glimmering among the | cottonwvod trees that covered the bottom of the | glen. It could only have been seen from a gg lar point above, where no one was likely to be straying. On all other sides it was concealed by the thick foliage of the trees, through which its smoke, scattering as it passed upward, be- came dissipated into thin haze before reaching the crest of the cliffs, By this fire, far remote from the hearths of civilization, two men were seated, bearing but a slight resemblance to each other. One was characteristic of the scene; his costume and accouterments, in short his tout-ensemlle, pro- claiming him unmistakably a trapper. Hunt- ing-shirt of dressed deer-hide, fringed at cape and skirt, leggings of like material, moccasins soled with parfléch, and on his head a felt hat, with crown and brim showing long service. His hair close-cropped, gave little framing to his face, that was naturally dark in color, but darker with dirt, sun-tan ani wrinkles. It looked the face of a man who had seen nearly | sixty summers, and quite as many winters. His companion was not over half his age nor in any way like the man we have taken for a trapper, although garbed in the costume com- mon to ‘‘mountain men.” He wore the hunt- ing-shirt, leggings and moccasins; but all were tastefully cut and elaborately embroidered. It might have been the difference between youth and age; and both may have been trap- pers alike. Still was there something about the younger man—a delicacy of feature and refine- ment of manner—very different from those who take to this rude, adventurous calling. A thought of the kind seemed to have come uppermost in the mind of his elder companion, as they sat by their camp-fire just kindled. It still wanted half an hour of sunrise; and they had issued out of their skin lodge, standing close by, to cook their morning meal. It was pre- paratory to starting out on a tour of inspection to their traps, set overnight in the streams near at hand. large flitch of buffalo-meat, com- rising several hump-ribs, was roasting in the laze; and they were waiting till it should be sufficiently done. It was the elder who spoke first; at least upon a subject foreign to the preparation of their re- st. a Durn it, Ned!” said he, “I’ve been dreemin’ *bout ye last night.” ‘Indeed! I hope nothing that promises bad luck. Bah! why should I think of luck, one way or the other? For me there can be none in the future worse than I’ve had in the past. What was your dream, ’Lije?” “Oh! nuthin’ much. I only thort I see’d ye alongside o’ a gurl; an’ she war a-pullin’ at ye to git ye away from the mountings. She war tryin’ to tote ye along wi’ her.” ‘She didn’t succeed, I suppose?” ‘Waal! I woke up ’fore it kim to thet. But ef’t hed been the gurl as I see’d in my dreem an’ it war all true, I reck’n she’d ’a’ hed a good chance.” “And pray what girl did you see in your | dream ?’ ‘““Maybe you’d like me to pronounce the name; ef ye do, I’d say Clar’ Blackedder. She | hindered his companion from hearing it. But, by the brighter light caused by the fat fallir among the cinders, a shadow could be seen su denly overspreading his countenance; his fea- tures at the same time assuming a cast half sad, half angry. ‘‘Not much danger of that dream coming true,” he said, with an effort at composing them. ‘‘Clara Blackadder has no doubt long ago changed her name; and forgotten mine too,’ “T don’t think she’s dud eyther one or the tother. Weemen are a kewrous kind 0’ var- mint; an’ cling onto thar affecshuns a deal harder’n we do. Besides, that gurl wa’n’t one 0’ the changin’ sort. I know’d her since she war knee-high to a duck. She war the only one o the hul family o’ Blackedders worth knowin’; for a bigger cuss than the brother wa’n’t no- whar to be foun’ in Massissipp, ’ceptin *twar the ole squire hisself. That gurl loved you, Ned; an’ ef you’d took the right way wi’ her, you mout yourself ’a’ had the changin’ o’ her name.” ** What way?’ ‘Whipped her off on the crupper o’ yer seddle—jest as these hyar purairia Injuns some- times does. Ye shed ’a’ dud thet an’ said no more about it, eyther to her father or to any- body else. It’s the way I dud myself wi’ Sal Siocum, down thar in Tennersee bottom. nich on thirty yeern ago, ’fore I went down to tha Choctaw Purchiss. Dick, her ole dad, war all ag’in’ me havin’ his gurl, ’cause he hed a spite at me for beatin’ him at a shootin’-match. "T'wa’n't no use his oppersishun. I got my critter seddled up, one night when Dick war soun’ asleep inthis shanty, an’ I toted Sal off, an’ took her afore a Methody preecher, who coupled us thegither in the shakin’ 0’ a goat’s tail. An’ I never had reezun to rue it. Sal made me a good wife; as long’s she lived. I hain’t hed a better ‘un since.” The young man smiled sadly at the strnnge ideas of his trapper companion; but the subject being a painful one to him, he made no re- joinder. ‘‘Thet’s what you ought to dud wi’ Clar’ Blackedder,” persisted the trapper, without noticing his companion’s chagrin, ‘‘cut cl’ar away wi’ her. Ef ye’d ’a’ hed her for y’ur wife, ' it ud ’a’ been diffrent for ye now. Instead o bein’ hyar in the mountings, mopin’ yer innards out—for I kin see ye’re doin’ thet, Ned—ye mout now be settled in the State o’. Massissip, workin’ a cotton plantashun wi’ a smart chance o’ nig on’t. Notas I myself shed care "bout eyte for arter twenty yeern o’ ramblin’ over thesa hyar ne oy I ain’t fit to live in the settle- ments. ’s different wi’ you, however, who ain’t noways shooted for a trapper’s life—though Ill say thar ain’t a better shot or hunter in <1! these purairias. Anybody kin see ye’re hyar for a diff’rent purpiss; tho’ I reck’n ’Lije Orton air the only ’un to which you've confided yur secret. Wal; you know I like ye, Ned; an? thet’s why I don’t like to see ye so down in the dumps. They’ve been on you ever since you left Massissipp; an’ I reck’n you'll find no ccre for ’em out hyar.” - “« Admitted, as that I still think of Miss Blackadder. “As | know you are my friend, f i admit it. But what would you have me of “Go back. to the Choctaw Purchiss, get once more ‘longside the gurl, an’ do wi’ her as 1 did wi’ Sal Slocum—run away wi’ her.” “*But she may be married? Or perhaps no — cares for me?” is was said with a sigh. ‘‘Neyther one nor t’other. ‘Lije Orton air willin’ to bet high on thet. Fust place, thar war reezuns she wouldn’t git married eezy, The ole squire, her dad, wa’n’t pop’lar "bout the Purchiss; an’ I don’t think he wur over rich. The young ’un must ’a’ spent most o’ the shiners as come in for the cotton. I know you w’u'dn’t ’a’ cared "bout thet; but others w’u’d; an’ I guess Clar’ Blackedder wa’n’t like to hey. ber choice ’mong the sons 0’ the best planters; an’.I ;} guess too she wa’n’t the gurl to hev anv o the [ second-rates, Then she liked you pcwerful | She told me so, time I wur back thar jest arter you left. Yes, Ned; she liked-you, «’ take this chile’s wurd fur it, she'll stick tc thet likin’ as death to a dead nigger.” : Quaint and queer as was th _trapper’s talk, it t : : TS ners was pleasant to the ear of .dv ard O'Neil: for such was the name of the »oun .man—the rame who had made suit for she ha d of Clare Black~ adder, and been scornfull rejected by her war the very gurl as war a-draggin’ at ye.” | father. At the mention of the name ‘‘Ned” heaveda| Of his life since that time the storv is easii- deep sigh, though tho sizzling of the hump-ribs ' supplied. On leaving the State of MM ississippé |
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he had gone westward into Arkansas; stay- ing some time at Little Rock. He had after- ward made his way to the Rocky Mountains, in the oe that among their deep defiles he might be enabled to bury the sorrow that was preying | apon him. Chance had brought him in contaci with ’Lije Orton, a noted trapper of the time, | and something besides had made them trapping companions, as well as fast friends; for ‘ive 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. In- deed, there was no opportunity; for, while de- livering 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.” Before any response could be given, he had separated the ribs with his knife; and, tak- ing hold of one in both hands, he commenced stripping it with his teeth, as quickly and adroitly as could have been done by the hun- griest coyote. Ya CHAPTER VII. ss 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 mastica- tion, 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 suc- cession. 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 signifi- cance, and not always a safe one. It might be a friend, who has discharged his gun; but it is more likely to be an enemy. Evidently so be- lieved the two trappers, else they would not have fixed their camping-place in a spot so diffi- eult 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 cafion, the only way by which they could con- veniently pass out to the plain, called for this semi-immersion. But the same gave them pro- tection against idle intruders. - rene up, Ned!” cried his companion, ‘an’ gee what you kin see.” The request was at once complied with; the younger trapper, flinging down Ris half-picked one, commenced climbing the steep face of the rock, assisted by the branches of the ce- dars, ’Lije remained below, continuing his ma- tutinal meal. In a few seconds’ time O’Neil had reached the summit of the cliff; and with a small binocular giass, which he had taken up along with him, eommenced examining the country in the direc- tion whence the shots appeared to have come. Tt was yet only the earliest dawn, and the plain toward 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! “Dye see any thing, boy?” called his com- rade, from below. “I hyurd another shot out purariaward. You must ’a’ see’d the flash o’t.” ** More than that,” responded the young man, noaking with bated breath. ‘‘Come up, ’Lije! There’s a fight going on, not far off. Some travelers 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!” F Dhe old trapper, grumbling his chagrin at Being interrupted in his déjeuner, dropped the Suffalo-rib; and taking his rifle along with him, gwommenced ascending the cliff. By the time he had ea his companion on the summit, the day had almost dawned; for the morning twilight is of short duration on the thead-waters of the Southern Platte. Looking eastward over the plain, they could mow see something more than the gleaming of eamp-fires; the white tilts of wagons set in_cor- raled shape, and around them dark forms, both of men and horses, swarming and moving like bees hiving up a branch. They could hear, ffoo, the wo, ies 4 of strife still continuing, or it might be the exulting shouts succeeding a tri- amiph. ‘ “A camp o’ whites,’ > said the old trapper, speaking half to himself, and half to his com- “ Thet’s cVar from, their havin’ wagons, ‘ede. Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. | | An’ equally sartin from the shouts. Thar’s no mis- takin’ them yells. They kedn’t come from any other than a Injun’s throat. I wonder who the whites kin be? His young comrade, equally wondering, but der. ‘*A party o’ emigratin’ travelers, I reck’n,” yursued the old trapper. ‘‘Can’t a be any 0’ ent’s or St. Vrain’s people. & t serprised thet eezy, nor ’ud they ’a’ gone un- der so quick. Sartint sure hev they gone under. Lissen to them yells! Thet’s the‘ conquerin’ screech o’ Injuns, sure as my name’s *Lije Or- ton!” His companion did not need any assurance, beyond what he himself heard and saw. There could be no doubt about its being a traveling 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 travelers. The sun, now pee ing up over the far prairie-edge, illumined the scene of strife, showing half a dozen wagons, 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. ‘“‘ Raythur a small ’un at thet! What durned fools they must ’a’ been to ventur’ acrost the purarias with sech a trifle o’ stren’th as they ‘pear to hev! They’re all ‘rubbed out’ now, | reck’n; or them as lives air captered, an’ in the hands o’ the Injuns. ‘Tf them Injuns be, as I suspect they ur, Yel- low Chief an’ his band, the Lord pity them poor critters! They’d better got rubbed out in the scrimmage, and thar ’u’d ’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 xitying them. heard some terrible tales of 1im last time I was over at Bent’s Fort. Who- ever the Indians be, they are certain to have taken some captives. An emigrant train— there should be women and children along with it! sare the savages will not kill them! Can we do nothing toward rescuing them? Can we not save them? Think, ’Lije!” “Tam a-thinkin’, an’ hev been ever since I kem up hyur. But ’tain’t no use. We mout think our heads off ‘ithout devisin’ any way to be o’ use to them. the same trap as they’re in—an’ maybe wuss; for them Cheyennes—’specially Yellow Chief’s gang—hez late tuk a desperate anger ag’in’ us We'd only git ourselves into | trappers, because, as they say, some o’ our fel- | lurs carried off one o’ thar squaws from the | place whar they war campin’ last spring in Mid- dle Park. If it’s the Cheyenne tribe as is squeel- in’ out thar, the furrer we keep away from ’em the longer we'll have ha’r on our heads. Hilloa! what’s thet thing comin’ on yonder?” The exclamation, as the query that followed, was calied 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; hue, that if might have passed for a fresh-drop- ped buffalo-calf, or one of the dark-brown wolves sometimes seen among the mountains. seemed to go with a crouching gait, unlike the upright attitude of a man! “THs a nigger!” cried the old trapper, as the moving object began to get near. “ A nigger, an’ a boy at thet! Durn me ef ’tain’t! cunnin’ young darky 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, Ireck’n, must be from the South; one 0’ thar slaves, sartin; au’ seein’ his master rubbed out, he’s tuk leg-bail on hisown account. Wagh! he’s comin’ right this way! Ned, you’re soopler than I’m; skoot out, an’ try ef ye kin catch him, whiles I stay hyur, an’ look out for what’s a- doin’ yonder. Git your claws on the darkey, ef ye kin, an’ we may Varn all about it.” O'Neil sprung down the cliff, and, wading through the cafion, was soon alongside the black- skinned fugitive—a negro boy, as anticipated. There was no chase required for the catch- ing him; the darky 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 af once conducting him into the cove, called to his comrade to come down, What a | they’ve been attacked by Injuns; that’s “Wal, 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—” still busy with his binccular, made no rejoin- | big praira. They w’u’dn’t ’a’ | ‘What wagons?” “De wagins dat we’re all a-trabelin’ wif ’cross Dar war de white folk and de colr’d people, all ob de plantash’n’; an’ I ’speck dey ail in d ’ceptin’ maseft.” “Who kilt them?” ‘*De Injuns, dem as war painted red, an’ white, an’ ebery color—dey come gallop up on da hosses jess as our folks wa’ "bout to git break. fass; an’ fore we know what we doin’ dey fire dar gun, an’ run dar long ’pears troo de sople. Oh, massa! I’s sure ebbery body gone kill’d.’ ‘“ Wharfore de ye think thet?” “Kase I see ole massa fall down an’ blood *treaming out o’ him face, an’ den I see obasseah fire shot from his gun, an’ dem de young missa she holler out, an’ so did all de ress ob de women an’ chil’ren, boaf de braks an’ de whites. Gor- rami’ty! how dey did ’cream!” ‘* What wur the name o’ y’ur ole massa, as ye callhim! Kin ye tell us that? ‘*Law, boss, sartin I kin tell dat. Ebbery body know de name ob ole massa. He call de Squiah Blackedder.” but one so diminutive in size and of such dusky | And it | | thin’? | | Squire Blackedder!” ‘* 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, darky?” “From Massissipy ’tate—de ole plantashun ain’t berry fur from de town o’ Vick’burg, on the 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 ut- terance to a loud ‘‘ Phew,” while his companion stood silent, as if suddenly struck dumb. CHAPTER VIII. PLANNING A RESCUE. ‘““WHat’s best to be dud? What d’ye say, Ned?’ ‘* Let us go straight to the place, and see what yA happened. Oh, heavens! If Clara has been illed! ‘Go strai’t to the place! Y’ur 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 fur nuthin’. Thar ain’t no kiver in that quarter, as I kin see from hyur; an’ to cut acrosst the purairia, ’ud be to go strai’t sar- tint inter the teeth o’ them squallin’ skunks. They’re boun’ to be drunk jest about this time; an’ whether it’s Yellur Chief’s lot or no, we’d get sharp sass from’em. Thet ye may sw’ar to.” “We must do something, "Lije. I can not bear to think that she may be in the hands of those horrid savages, and I standing here al- most within sight of her! If she be living I must rescue; and if dead, by heavens, I shall re- venge ber! We must do something, ’Lije! we must!” ‘* An’ who said we wa’n’t a-goin’ to do some- Not this chile, sure. Maybe I mout’a’ said so, ef thar hed been only 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 diffrent; 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 darky! Kin you tell how many Injuns thar war in the party thet attackted ye?” “Dar war a big lot, massa—gobs on ’em; I’s sure more’n a hunder—far more’n dat.” ‘“* Bah!” exclaimed the trapper, disappointed: ly. ‘*Tain’t no use inquirin’ o’ him, hyur niggur. Did you notice any o’ them as ‘peered to be thar leeder?” ** Wha—what, massa?” **A leeder, durn ye! A chief!” “A chief?” “Yes, one that war actin’ as boss, or over seer. “Ah! de boss. Yes, thar war a bossy ’mon dem: I ‘pose he muss ’a’ been, kase he orders all de oders "bout.” “Kin ye describe what he war like? How we he dressed? What sort o’ duds had he on nim?” “ Rasy ’nuf dat, massa. He drest moas like de ress ob dem—only on de top ob him head wer oe
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a big oy ob feather, shinin’ like de tail o’ a peacock.” “The Yellur Chief!” exclaimed the ques- tioner. ‘“No, massa. He no yella’. He wa’ painted red. Dar wa? some yella’ stripe; but mos’ ob him wa’ a bright red color—redder dan blood.” ‘* Never mind that. nigger; you don’t know oe I’m talkin’ bout. What did ye see him o? ‘*See’d him try to ’top de shootin’ an’ killin’.” “Stop the shootin’ an’ killin’! You saw him tryin’ to do thet? Air ye sure o’t, boy?’ ‘*No, massa, ain’t shoo’. I thort he wa’ doin’ so. I wa’n’t shoo’. I wa’ feared dey ’ud go on wid 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.” his remark was to O’Neil, who stood chafing at the delay. “Tt is strange,” he answered. ‘In any case, it’s no use our remaining longer here, if we’re go- ing to do anything. What can you think of, 5 Li je?” : The trapper, with his right palm resting upon the stopper of his gun, stood for a while, reflect- ing. f Thar’s one thing,” he said at length; ‘‘ ef’t air this Cheyenne skunk, an’ he ha’n’t kilt the hull lot o’ them outright, thar’s jest a chance o’ our ‘savin’ some 0’ ’em.” ‘*'Thank God!” exclaimed O Neil, in a tone of relieved anxiety. ‘‘ You think there’s a chance, Lije”” og | ald “In what way?” ‘Wal: still concedin’ the ’p’int o’ its bein’ Yellur Chief, I kin 1 her putty near what it means. He’s out wi’ a band o’ the young braves, that ain’t likely to track strai’t back to the town 0’ their tribe so long’s they’ve got captive weemen among ’em.” | The young Wicimath started at the words. They conveyed to him a thought that gave pain to him; but, anxious to hear his comrade’s scheme for their rescue, he did not interrupt m, ** An’ ef’t be them, I kin guess whar they’ll go— most sartin o’t. This chile chances to know one 0’ Yellur Chief’s private campin’-groun’s. I larnt thet when I war trappin’ in this quarter two * yeern ago—time you war downstayin’ at Bent’s. hey’re over yonner now, a-plunderin’ the poor emigrants an’ thar wagins, an’ we mout go strait to’em ef we wanted to git shut o’ our scalps. But as we don’t want thet, the ques- ti’nis, whar they’ll be when we kum back in search o’ ’em.” “Come back! You purpose going some- where. Where to?” “To St.. Vrain’s.” “Ah! For what purpose?” ‘For the only purpiss thet kin serve our pur- piss: an’ thet air to git a wheen’o’ mounting men as kin lend us a han’ in this business. Without thet, we’d hev as much chance to res- coo the captives—ef thar be any sech—as for a kripple to catch a Kit fox.” ** Do you think we should find any there?” ‘Tam sartint we will. The darkey hez tolt us 0’ 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 St. Vrain’s on thar way. Ishedn’t be surprised ef we foun’ fifty on ’em thar now. Half o’ the number will be enuf to chestize Yellur Chief an’ his gang o’ freebooters. Thurfor’ le’s go to the fort right away, an’ see what kin be done.” “T'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 re- flect 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. Wemust keep clost in to the bottom o’ the bluffs in torst St. Vrain’s; else them Injuns may spy us. Ef they shood, we'll be in for a ugly scrape; an’ not like to git cl’ar o’t ’ithout sheddin’ the skins o’ our two skulls. Wagh! thet ere w’u’dn’t be no way agreeable; an’ ef’t wa’n’t thet thar’s a gurl in the question, whose life, an’ sumthin else, oughter be saved, I’d ’a’ stayed hyur to finish my breakfust, an’ let Yellar Chief an’ his cut-throats go straight eustrut 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. Kf you’ve been brought up ’bout ‘Blue Dick. Squire Blackedder’s stables, I reck’n you know somthin’ *bout hosses. An’ harkee, boy! we two air goin’ awaya bit. So you keep clost in this hyur hole, till we kum back ag’in. You kin rest your black karkidge inside thet thar tent, whar ye’ll find somethin’ in the way o’ buffler- | meat to keep y’ur 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 accoutered, the trappers sprung into their respective saddles; and spur- ring toward the cation, were soon plunging be- tween 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 disk appearing some two or three degrees above the prairie horizon. There was need for the horsemen to show cir- e ction. And they did: silently skirting the cliff, and keeping behind huge bowlders, 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 re An assemblage of this sort—including, we are sorry to say, both the sober and the drunk— were at St. Vrain’s Fort on the day above speci fied. They had come there from all quarters: from the parks and ‘‘ holes” of the Ricky Mown- tains, from the streams, creeks, and bi anches«» this side running East, as well as from the he#d- waters of the Green Bear, and Colorado cous ing West. Nearly all of them had made a good season of it, and arrived with their pack-cri mals staggering under the spoils of the trap a: d the rifle. These had become the property of the fort, after an exchange on its side of guns, knives, gti. and lead, witb five-point Mackinaw lankets, and other articles of tra; per wear: including those of adornment, not forgetting some sparkling bijouterie intended as gifts, or ‘‘ gages d@’amour ” for the bronze-skinned beau- ties 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 cr ‘* trucked,” the trappers assembled at St. Vrain’s. to exchange for their peltries, had also received ' a large quantity of coin currency, in the shape dreaded spot, ‘“we needn’t ’a’ been so partickler. | I reck’n, "bout this time, thar ain’t a sober Injun on the banks o’ Bijou. I hope old Blackedder an’ his party, afore leavin’ the settlements, laid in a good supply of rot-gut—enuf to keep them skunks dead-drunk till we kin git back ag’in. Ef thet be the case, thar’ll be some chance 0’ our chestizin’ ’em.” A mental “amen” was the only response made by the young Irishman, who was too | much occupied in thinking of Clara Blackad- der’s danger, to reflect coolly on the means of rescuing her—even though it were certain she still lived. CHAPTER IX. ST. VRAIN’S. Onz of the classical names associated with the ‘commerce of the prairies ” is that of St. 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, St. Vrain, Bonneville, Robideau, Laramie, and Pierre Choteau, might often be heard upon the lips of men. And none more frequently than St. Vrain, by whose daring and enterprise not only were car- avans carried across the almost untrodden wil- derness to the Mexican settlements of Santa Fé, but forts established in the very midst of this wilderness, and garrisons maintained, with a inilitary efficiency rivaling the body-guard of many a little European despot! Yet there was no despotism here, supported | told a tale of haste. It could be no caper of {vo by the sweat of a taxed people; only a simple defensive organization for the pursuit of a val- | uable, as a laudable industry. And when the through the midst of those distant solitudes, and cities have sprung up on his track, the ta 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 within my ornamental grounds the ruin of one of Bent’s or St. Vrain’s forts, than the crumbling walls of Kenilworth Castle or the Keep of Carisbrooke. More pic- turesquely romantic, more exalting, woul the souvenirs recalled, and the memories awak- ened by them. St. Vrain’s trading-post on the South Fork of the Platte, was one of those long noted as a fa- | vorite rendezvous of the free trappers; as might have been told by any one chancing to make | iron-horse goes snorting | i | Black Harris, a celebrated mountain man. “Cr be | stop at it, in the season when these wandering | adventurers laid aside their traps to indulge in | a spell of idleness and a ‘‘ spree.” ust such a time was that when Squire Black- adder and his emigrant companions were ap- proaching the post, and fell into the clutches of | the Cheyennes. It was not one of their grand- est 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,” there will be a merry company; at times becoming dangerous—not only to stran- gers but to one another—through too much rink. | upon the ground, and of Mexican silver dollars, With these burniz sr the bottoms out of their pockets, it is scarce ne- cessary 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 termina- tion of these games of eucher and ‘‘ poker.” Another source of strife among the trappers assembled at St. Vrain’s, was to be found in the fact: that a friendly Indian tribe, the ‘‘ Crows,” were encam near the post; and among there birds, notwithstanding the name, are meny that are beautiful. No soft courtship suit¢ an Indian belle. If you want to win her, you must show braver~ ; and you will not biel losing her affections ii your bravery degenerate into brutalism! Such are the m inclinings of both mcn and women in the state called ‘‘ savage”; but it must not be supposed that this is the stato of Nature. On the contrary, the savages, pre- perly so styled, have long since passed frerm their pristine condition of simplicity. Several quarrels had cccurrcd among the trappers at St. Vrain’s Fort—more than one had ended in the shedding of blood—and one of the bloodiest was on the eve of breaking crf, when a cry from the sentinel cu the azot.a caused a suspension of the broil. The quarrelers were below, on the level p'a'n that stretched away from the frand gate en-’ trance of the building, and fcimed a sort cf general ground for assemblag«—as well for ell athletic sports, as fur games cf a less rect. - mendable kind. The shout of the sentry caused them to look toward the plain; where they saw two kcrre- men going at a gallop, and evidently making for the fort. The rapidity with which they approached, and the way they were urging on their ste: Cs, men trying the speed of their horses. The ari- mals seemed too badly blown for that. ‘*Thar’s Injuns after them two fellers!” satd hez a-been not far back. Boys! can any c’ye tell who they are? My sight ain’t so plain es *bwar twenty year ago.” “Tf I ain’t mistook,” answered another of {J > trapper fraternity, “that ’un on the clay-be1 & hoss is ole ’Lije Orton, oréeginally from Ten- nessee. Who the other be, durn me ef I knev. A young ’un, I guess; an’ don’t look at all ile these hyar purairies, though he do sit that biack: hoss, as though he war friz to him. Don’t fhe feller ride spunky?” “ Ay dios!” exclaimed a man whose swartli skin and bespangled costume proclaimed hin. a Mexican. ‘‘Call that riding, do you? Carri! on our side of the mountains a child of six years: old would show you better!” “Tn trath an’ yez are mistaken, Mist! er Saynyor Sanchis, as ye call yerself. I knew who that gossoon is that’s coming up yore er. for he’s a couutryman av mine; and, be {hr powers! he kin roide to bate any Mixikar -» the mountains—not like a cat stickin’ on the back av a goat as yez do it; but like a gintlc- man. Him yonder, beside ould ’Lije Orton, °s Misther Edward Onale, ov the Onales av Coun‘ y Tipperary; an’ be jabers, he is a gentleman be both sides av the house!” Before this new discussion could culminate “o- another quarrel, the two horsemen had ridc« 4 1 a up in the mids’ c7 the trappers, who, with eager, inquiring Ic us | gathered in = circle around them.
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CHAPTER X. 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 pant- ing, as were also the horses that bore them. *Theer’s somethin’ wrong, ’Lije Orton,” said Black Harris, aiter saluting anold comrade. ‘I purspiration on y’ur 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! Whi¢h o’ ye kin read it? ‘Splain y’urself, ’Lije.”’ ‘“‘Thar ain’t much explinashun needed; only that a party o’ emigrants hez been attacked 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 cl’ar enuf. They were some planters from the State 0’ Massissip’.” ““That’s my State!” interrupted one of the trappers—a young fellow—inclined to take part in the talking. “‘Shet up y’ur head!” continued Harris, turn- ing upon the fellow one of his blackest frowns. ‘Whether it air y’ur State or no,” continued the. imperturbable ’Lije, ‘‘don’t make much diff’rence. What I've got to say, boys, air this: A karryvan 0’ 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 allon ’em hev been rubbed out. 1 chance to know who them emigrants war; but thet’s no bizness,o¥%y’urn. I reck’n it’s enuf that they war whit« > thet Injuns dud the deed.” ‘What Indians? Do you know what tribe?’ “That oughtn’t to make any diff’rence 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 neythur.” ““Cheyennes, then? I'll stake a bale o’ beaver it’s them same Injuns, in my opeenyun, the most trechermost as scours these hyar peraries.” “Yo wouldn’t lose y’ur skins,” quietly re- mded ’Lije. ‘“‘It air Cheyennes es hez one 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.” “Ts it he, *Lije?’ asked several in a breath. “Ts it the Yellow Chief?” ‘“’Tain’t nobody else,” quietly declared the aah ag : 6 declaration was received with 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 ar- ‘rived, 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 for- iven, if not forgotten; and, with friendships sh 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 counsel about the course to be pursued. ; There was no question of their remaining in- active. The name of the Yellow Chief had fired one and all, from head to foot, rousing within them the bitterest. spirit of vengeance. Toa 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 ree- gens. Fust an’ f oremost, thar war somo o’ you Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. fellurs, as passed the karryvan yesterday, ’bout the hour o’ noon, Ain’t thet so?” ‘* Yes; we did,” responded one of three trap- pers, who, standing silently.in the cirele, had | not yet taken part in the hurried conversation. “We traveled along with them for some dis- tance,” continued the man, and stayed a bit at | their noon halting place. We didn’t know any Choctaw who used to hang about Bent’s Fort. Waboga, the Indyens call him. Well; we warn- ed them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer ’un. Like enough it’s him that has be- trayed them.” * Thet’s been the treetor,” said ’Lije. ‘‘ Him an’ no other; tho’ it moutn’t ’a’ made much dif- frence. 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’ ye’ve kim on hyar, an’ knowin’, as he’s sartint ter do, thet thar’s a good grist 0’ trappers at the fort, he’ll stay "bout the pe 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 would- n't be a bit of use. This chile hev thort o’ a shorter an’ better way o’ findin’ out thar whar- abouts.” “You know where they are gone, ’Lije?’ in- terrogated Black Harris. “ Putty nigh the spot, Harry. Ireck’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 wasp’s nest an’ strangle thar yellar hornet o’ a chief, then eall Black Harris o’ the moun- tains a dod-rotted greenhorn!” “Ef I don’t guide strai’t custrut into thar campin’-place ye may call ole ’Lije Orton blind- er than the owls 0’ a purairia-dog town. So git me!” It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being revenged on the hated sub- chief 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 stay- ing at St. 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 we¥e fas- tening across the prairie with "Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief. There 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 In- dians. As for Black Harris and several others of his kidney, they would not have hesitated a mo- ment 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 ieasted 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 XI. CAPTORS AND CAPTIVES. ONCE more in the gorge, where the young Cheyenne chief and his band had encamped, before making attack upon the emigrant cara- van. 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 expedi- tionary 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 down on the grass ina state of helplessly 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 roup: 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, oc- | of the party, exneg} their guide, who was that | can tell that by yur looks, as well’s by the | cupy an angular space between two } of the cliff. There, huddled together, tx 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 be- yond 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 grand duty is a sine- cure. 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 vari-, ous 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 mar- riage, as in the cares of maternity. It is Clara Blackadder. Seated alongside the others, though unlike them in most respects, she seeins sud as any. If she has no anxiety about the children around her, she has grief for those oc? older years—for a father, whom but a few hours be. fore she had seen lying dead upon the prairie turf, and whose gray hairs, besprinkled with jections y have | 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 | guar; for the individuals composing it are all rour things ready, boys; an’ cum right arter | oS ~~? , , 4 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, simi. larly placed on spears, tell the tale of the miss- ing 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 tho 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-favored face, but this gives to it an expres- sion truly horrible. A top belonging to one of the wagons had 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 Cheyenhes: The single tilt appears in the camping-place, set up asa tent; and inside it the chief, som- nolent after a sleepless night, and wearied with the work of the morning, is reclining in siesta. Waboga, with the body-servant, keeps sentry outside of it. Not that they fear danger, or even intrusion; but both know there is a specta- cle 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. . Tbe white men are not so fast bound, as to hinder them from conversing. In a low tone, telling of fear, they discuss among them- selves 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. Itmay be even worse; death preceded by torture. But death of itself is sufficient to terrify them; and beyond this their conjectures do not extend. “{ 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 onl 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 erat to be.” ‘*'There’s reason in that, 1 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 frighten- ed, when the carousing savages turn their eyes in another direction—toward the group of white women. One of these is a widow, made so that same morning, her husband at the time +
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Blue Dick. 9 lying scalped upon the prairie—his scalp of lux- uriant 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 lost speech. It is the speech- lessness of despair. CHAPTER XII. 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 buck-skin, it was made of scarlet cloth, and elaboratel adorned by bead embroidery. Underneat were fringed leggings, ending in moccasins, worked with the porcupine-quill. A Mexican scarf of crimson China crape was around his waist, with its tasseled ends hanging behind. On his head was a checkered Madras kerchief, tied turban-fashion, its corners 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 pis- tols 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 pic- turesque, though terrible to look upon. His size—he was fuli six feet—gave him a com- manding appearance; and his movements easy, and without agitation, told of a commanding mind. His followers seemed to acknowledge it; as, on the moment of his 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. {t was 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 dis- covered the necessity of 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 pifions 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 stand- ing ever since issuing the order. It will do,” he said, looking at the felled pifion, 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 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 direc- tions prs, just clearing its top. _By further instructions from the cbief, a stout piece of timber, taken from one of the limbs, was ed 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 him- self 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 punish- ment intended for themselves. When they saw the erection taking the form of a crucifix, this of itself was suggestive of tor- ture; but observing also the strange spot in which it was being set up, there began to glim- mer 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. “*T wonder what they can be after wantin’ with that?’ said one of the planters to his fel- low-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 re- ceive some Hinestions 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 ob- ee Five or six of the young braves, after istening to the commands of their leader, turn- ed their backs upon him, and came bounding on to the spot where the prisoners lay. appeared in high glee, as if some sport was ex- pected; 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 assist- ed—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 toward 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 resem- bled 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 at- tached. His head was still untouched by the pees, that fell down directly in front of his ace, But he was not to remain thus. As soon as 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!” ex- claimed one. ‘“‘What do de Indyin meant Dat’s jess what Massa Blount say five vear ago, when dey wa’ gwine to pump on de head o’ 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 unishment was inflicted. A speech so strange- y recurring could not help giving them a pre- sentiment that something was right at hand to make them repent of their heartlessness. They, too, as well as Snively, looked toward the chief for an explanation, and anxiously list- | ened for what he might next say. They | 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 ans with a pleased expression upon his face, e called some words of direction to a young warrior who was near. It was obeyed by the Indian, who, —- 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 Che- yenne chief, no longer speaking in the Indian | tongue, but in plain understandable English. | ‘** It’s your turn now. As he spoke, the Indian, who held the stone, sogged it down between the back of Blackad- der’s neck and the trunk of the tree. Wed, 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, too, Clara Blackadder. Give him a double dose!” | 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 con - templating the punishment he had decreed t.s his captive; a smile of exultation overspreading his face, as he thought of the pain his white vic- tim 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 duct not have heard, but that smote upon the ears of the overseer with a meaning strangely intelligible: “Tell do for the present. Next time he of- Sends in like manner he shall be pumped wpon till his thick skull splits like a cedar rail!” CHAPTER XIII. MAKING A BOLT, ArT the new and still strange speech, Snively started again, and Clara Blackadder looked up with a still more puzzled expression; while among the blacks there ran a murmur of inter- rogatories and exclamations of terror. t was on the overseer, however, that the words produced the strongest impression. He was aman of too much intellect—or that ’cute- ness that passes for it—to be any longer in doubt as to the situation in which he and his fellow-captives were placed. A clear memory, coupled with an accusing conscience, hel him to an explanation, at the same time telling him ofa danger far worse than being captives in the hands of hostile Indians. It was the danger of death, with torture for its prelude. Both now appeared before his imagination, in their most horrid shape—an digi rad of moral pain added to the physical. He Coseiod at his fastenings; examined them, to see if there was any chance of setting him- self free. It was not the first time for him to make the examination; but never more earnest- ly than now. The rawhide thong, wetted with the sweat of his body —in places with his blood — showed signs of stretching. By a desperate wrench he might get his limbs clear of it! A at if he should succeed in untying him- self? His liberty could only last for a moment—to be followed by a renewal of his captivity, or by | a sudden death. She looked up with | Wit Neither could be worse than the fate that now seemed to be awaiting him, and near! Even death would be preferable to the agony of Be phe: he was enduring! ne more glance at his fastenings, and along with it the determination to set himself free from them. And without reflecting further, he com- menced a struggle, in which all his strength and cunning were concentrated. The rawhide ropes yielded to the superhuman effort; and, clearing himself of their coils, he sprung out from among his fellow-prisoners, and went off at full speed toward the prairie! He did not continue far in the direction of the outward plain. With no other hope of gettin clear, than that held out by mere swiftness o: foot, he would not have made the attempt. h the Indians’ horses standing near, ready a strange, puzzled expression upon her counte- | to be mounted at a moment’s notice, the idea nance, Give him a double dose! What could it mean? Snively had heard the would have been simply absurd. Even before he had made a half-score strides, several of the savages were seen rushing toward their steeds order before—remembered a day on which he | to take up the pursuit, for the prairie Indians was commanded to execute it. And the words, too, came from the mouth of an Indian chief—a painted savage—more than | chase would have been a short one. never think of following a foe upon foot. Had Snively kept on for the open plain, the He had
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10 determined on a different course. on the ground, and speculating on the chances of getting away, he had noticed a ravine that ran sloping up toward the summit of the cliff. Trees grew thickly in it. They were dwarf cedars, bushy and umbrageous. If he could only get among them, screened by their foliage, he might succeed in baffling his pursuers. all events, their arrows and bullets would be aimed with less likelihood of hitting him. While lying | | any doubt as to the identity of him with whom Once on the mountain slope above, which was | also forest-clad, he would have at least a chance for his life. He was a man of great strength, swift too of foot, and he knew it. It was his knowledge of the possession of these powers that gave him hope, and determined him on the attempt he had made. It was not so unfeasible, and might have suc- ceeded, had his only pursuers been those who had taken to their horses. But there was one who had followed him on foot, of equal strength, and swifter of foot than he. This was the Cheyenne chief. The latter had noticed the prisoner as he gave the last wrench to the ropes, and saw that he had suc- ceeded in setting himself free from their coils. At the same instant that pit ig sprung out from among his fellow-prisoners, th upon the bound after him, with his long spear poised and ready for a thrust. He had thrown off his wolf-skin cloak to obtain freedom of movement for his arms. Snively, as he had intended, turned abruptly | to one side, and struck up the ravine, with the chief close following him. Those who had taken to their horses were for the time thrown out of the chase. In a few seconds, both fugitive and pursuer had entered the gorge, and were lost to view under the spreading fronds of the cedars. Fora time those remaining below could not see them; but by the parting of the crackling branches, and the rattle of stones displaced b their feet, it could be told that both were sti struggling up the steep. Then came loud words, proclaiming that the pursuer had overtaken the pursued. ‘“‘ A step further, you accursed nigger-driver! one step further, and I'll run my lance-blade right up through your body! Down again! or I'll split you from hip to shoulder.” e chief was | Although they saw it not from below, a | strange, tragical tableau was presented at the moment when these words were spoken. It was the chief who had uttered the threat. | He was standing upon a ledge with his spear | pointed vertically upward. Above him, hang- ing from a still higher ledge, with one hand grasping the edge of the rock, was the long, lathy form of the Mississippian overseer, out- lined in all its ungainly proportions against the facade of the cliff. Te had been endeavoring to climb higher; but | not succeeding, was now overtaken, and at the mercy of his savage pursuer. “Down!” repeated the latter, in a voice that thundered along the cliffs. want to run away? You see I don’t intend to kill you? If I did, how easily I might doit now. Down I say!” For a moment Snively seemed to hesitate. A desperate effort might still carry him beyond the reach of the threatening spear. Could he be quick enough? No. The eye of his enemy was too watchful. He felt, that on turning to make another at- tempt, he would have the iron blade, already red with his own blood, thrust through his | mht thought came intohis mind. Should he drop down, grapple with the savage, and en- deavor to wrest the weapon from his hands? He now knew whose hands held it. Tt was a design entertained but for a moment. Ere he could determine upon its execution, half a dozen of the Indians, who had close followed their chief, came rushing up the ravine, and stood upon the ledge beside him. : Exhausted by long hanging, with but slight foothold against the cliff, Snively’s gri - came detached from the rock; and he fell back into their midst; where he was at once seized, and tied more securely than ever. “Drag him down!” commanded the Chey- enne chief, speaking to his followers. And then addressing himself to the overseer, he con- tinued: ‘When we get below, Mr. Snively, Tll explain to you why you're not already a dead man. I don’t wish that; I want you alive for awhile. I’ve a show for you, as well as the others—especially those belonging to old Black- adder’s plantation; but above all for yourself, its worthy overseer. Bring him below!” “Why do you | claws on the licker that must ’a’ been in the Beadle’s Half-Dime At | | difP'runt Library. The recaptured captive, dragged back down the ravine, though with fearful apprehensions as to what was in store for him, had no longer he had to deal. When the Cheyenne c! ief strode up to the waterfall; washed the pain. irom his face; and then, turning toward the other captives, show- ed them the bright yellow skin of a mulatto, he was not taken by surprise. But there was profound astonishment on the countenances of the negro captives; who, on recognizing the freshly-washed face, cried out as with one voice: ** Blue Dick !” CHAPTER XIV. THE RESCUERS. WHILE the savage scenes described were be- ing enacted in the mountain valley, a band of horsemen was fast approaching it, making their way around the skirting spurs that at intervals protruded into the prairie. It is scarce necessary to say that these were the trappers from St. Vrain’s, nor to add that they were riding at top-speed—fast as the horses and mules on which they were mounted could carry them. Conspicuous in the front were two who ap- peared to act in the double capacity of leaders and guides. One of them seemed exceedingly anxious to press forward—more than any of the party. e was acting as if some strong urgency was uponhim. It wasthe young Irish- man, O'Neil. The man riding by his side, also say troubled about time, was his old com- rade, ’Lije Orton, the trapper. The two kept habitual y ahead, now in mut- tered converse with one another, and now shout- ing back to their companions, to urge them onward. Some of these came close up, while some, at times, showed a disposition to strag- e. The truth is, the ‘mountain men” had brought their whisky-flasks along with them, and, at every stream crossed they insisted on stopping to ‘‘ take a horn.” Oeil was the one who chafed loudest at the delay. To him it was excruciating torture. “Arter all,” said Orton, with the intention less to restrain than comfort him, “it won’t make so much diff’rence, Ned. A wheen 0’ minutes ain’t neyther hyur nor there, in a mat- ter o’ the kind. In course, I know well o’ what ye’re thinkin’ about.” He paused, as if expecting a rejoinder. O Neil only answered witha deep, long-drawn sigh. “Ef any thing air to happen to the gurl,” continued ’Lije, rather in the strain of a Job’s comforter, ‘it will hey happened long ‘fore this,” The young Irishman interrupted him with a groan. “Maybe, howsomdever,” continued ’Lije, ‘she air all right yet. It air possible enuf the Injuns ‘11 get drunk, as soon as they lay thar waggins; an’ ef that be the case, they won’t think o’ troublin’ any o’ thar keptives till thar carousin’ kums to a eend. This chile’s opeen- yun is, ef they intend any torturin’, they’ll keep that sport over till the morrow; an’ sh’u’d they do so, darn me, ef we don’t disapeint em. Oncst we git i 3 the spot, we'll g’ie em sport very from that they’ll be expectin’.” There was reason in what ’Lije said. His words were consolatory to O’Neil; and, for a time, he rode on with a countenance more cheerful. It soon became clouded again, as he returned | to reflect on the character of the Indians, who were supposed to have ‘‘ struck” the caravan; more especially their chief, whose fame as a hater of white men was almost equaled by his reputation as a lover of white women. There was more than one story current among the trappers, in which the Yellow Chief had figured as a gallant among white-skinned girlish cap- tives who had fallen into his hands on their passage across the prairie. With the remembrance of these tales com- ing fresh before his mind, O’Neil groaned | again. 2. What if Clara Blackadder—in his memory still an angel—what if she should, at that mo- ment, be struggling in the arms of a paint-be- daubed savage? eauty in the embrace of a fiend! The reflection was fearful—odious; and, as it shadowed that young hunter’s heart, he drove the spurs deep into the flanks of his horse, and eried to his comrade, ‘‘Come on, ’Lije! come on!” But the time had arrived when something be~ sides haste was required of them. They were nearing the spot where the pillagers of the cara- van were supposed to have made camp; and the trappers were too well acquainted with the wiles of prairie life to approach either men or animals in an open manner. They knew that no Indians, even in their hours of carousal, would leave their camp unguarded. A whole tribe never gets drunk together. Enough of them always stay sober to act as sentinels and vedetites. Safe as the Cheyenne chief and his fellow- lunderers might deem themselves—far away rom any foe likely to molest them—they would, for all this, be sure to keep pickets around their camping-place, or scouts in its vi- cinity. There was a bright daylight, for it was yet early in the afternoon. To attempt approach- ing the bivouac of the savages across the open plain, or even close skirting the mountains, could only lead to a iailure of their enterprise. They would be sure of being seen, and, before they could get within striking distance, the In- dians, if not disposed to fight, would be off carrying along with them both their booty and their captives. Mounted on fresher horses than those ridden by the trappers, now panting and sweating after a long continuous gallop, they could easily accomplish this. There seemed but one way of approaching the Indian camp—by stealth; and this could only be done by waiting for the night and its dark- ness. As this plan appeared to be the best, most of the trappers were in favor of adopting it. They could think of no other. The thought of such long delay was agony to O'Neil. Was there no alternative? The question was put to his comrade, ’Lije, while the discussion was in progress. “Thur air a alturnative,” was the answer ad- dressed to all, though to none who so welcomed it as his young friend. ‘* What other way?’ demanded several voices, O’Neil’s being the first heard. ‘You see them mountings?” said ’Lije, point- ing to a range that had just opened to their view. ‘*Sartin; we ain’t all blind,” replied one of the men. ‘*‘ What about them?” “You see that hill that ‘sticks out thur, wi’ the trees on top o’t, jest liké the hump o’ a buf- fler bull?’ “Well, what of it?” “Clost by the bottom o’ that, them Injuns air camped—that be, ef this chile hain’t nats a mistake "bout thar intenshuns. We'll find ’em thur, I reck’n.” ‘** But how are we to approach the place with- out their spying us? There ain’t a bit o’ cover on the prairie for miles round.” ‘¢ But there are kiver on the mounting itself,” rejoined ’Lije. ‘‘ Plenty o’ tree kiver, as ye kin see,” ‘Ah! you mean for us to make a circumbend- ibus over the ridge, and attack them from the back-side. Is that it, "Lije?”’ ‘*That’s it,” laconically answered the olf trapper. vs Vou must be mistaken about that, Orton,” put in Black Harris, sup sed to be the sagest among “mountain men.” ‘We might get over the ridge ’ithout bein’ noticed, I reck’n; but not with our animals. Neythur hoss nor mule can climb up yonder. And if we leave them be- hind, it’]] take longer than to wait for the night. Besides, we mightn’t find any track up among the rocks. They look, from here, as if they had been piled up by giants as had been playing jack-stones wi’ em.” “So they do,” replied "Lije, “‘so do they. But, fr all that, there’s a’coon kin find a path to crawl through among ’em, an’ that’s ’Lije Or- ton. I hain’t trapped all roun’ hyur ‘ithout knowin’ the neer cuts; an’ there’s a way over that ridge as’) fetch us strai’t custrut to the In- jun campin’-groun’ an’ ‘ithout their purseevin’ our approach in the cl’arest o’ sunlight. Bee- side, it Il bring us into sech a pursishun that we'll hev the skunks ’ithin reech 0’ our guns, afore they know any thin’ "bout our_bein’ near ‘em. Beeside, too, it ll save time. We kin get thur long afore dark, so as to have a good chance o’ lookin’ through the sights o’ our ri- fles.” “Tet us go that way,” simultaneously cried several voices, the most earnest among them be- ing that of O’Neil. No one dissenting, the mountain path was de- termined upon. Continuing along the plain for a half-mile further, the trappers dismounted, cachéd their
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he 4 ‘still more hideous from its Blue Dick. —— animals among the rocks, and commenced as- cending the steep slope—’Lije still acting as their guide. CHAPTER XV. RETALIATION IN KIND, Tue thrill that passed through the captives as Blue Dick discovered to them his identity was not so startling to all. With Blount Blackad- der and Snively, his words, as well as his acts, had long since led to his recognition. Also among the slaves were some who remembered that scene in the courtyard of the old home plantation, when he had been subjected to the punishment of the pump. Despite their sup- posed obtuseness, they were sharp enough to connect it with the very similar spectacle now before their eyes; and, on hearing the command, “Give him a double dose,” more than one re- membered having heard the words _ before. _ Those who did were not happy, for they also recalled their own conduct on that occasion, and were apprehensive of just retaliation from the hands of him whom they had scoffed. Seeing how their young master had been served, they e sure of it; still more when the overseer Snively, was submitted to the same dread -castigation, and after him, the huge negro who had worked the pump-handle when Blue Dick was being douched. Both these received the double dose, and more than double. As Snively was unloosened from the cross, and dragged out beyond the water- jet, the hideous gash — his cheek looked b mrarong And the negro, thick as was his skull, roared aloud, and felt as though his head had been laid open. He said so on recovering his senses. The grin upon his face was no longer that of glee, as when he himself was administering the punishment. It was a contortion that told of soul-suffering agony. He was not the last to be so served. Others were taken from the crowd of slaves, not in- discriminately, but evidently selected one after another. And the rest began to see this, and to believe they were to be tortured. ome were solaced by the thought that to others gave keen = rehension. ‘thon 4 had not all jeered their fellow-slave, when he was himself suffering. Only the guilty were stricken with fear. And need had they to fear; for, one after an- other, as the chief pointed them out, they were seized by his satellites, dragged from among their trembling fellow-slaves, and in turn tied to the pine-tree cross. And there were they kept, till the cold melted snow from Pike’s Peak, descending on their crania, caused them to shriek out in agony. All this while were the Cheyennes looking on; not gravely, as becomes the Indian character, but laughing like the spectators of a Christmas pantomime, capering over the ground like its actors, and yelling until the rocks gave back the mimicry of their wild mirth in weird, unearth- ly echoes, Never till now had they held in such high es- teem the mulatto adopted into their tribe, who, by brave deeds, had won chieftainship over them. Never before had he treated them to such a spectacle, consonant to their savage natures, and still more in consonance with their hate for the pale-face. For, even at this period of their history, when the elders of the Cheyenne tribe were in a sort of accord with the white man, and professing a false amity, the young filibustering ‘“ bloods ” — with difficulty restrained from acts of hos- ity. The Yellow Chief, who had strayed among them coming from afar, who had married the belle of their tribs>—the beautiful daughter of their “‘medicine-man”—who surpassed all of them in his hatred of the white race, and more than once had led them in a like murderous ma- raud against their hereditary enemies, was the man after their heart, the type of a patriotic savage. Now, more than ever, had he secured their es- m; now, as they saw him, with cruel, un- sparing hand, deal out castigation to their pale- faced captives; a punishment so quaintly origi- nal, and so terribly painful, that they would not have believed in it, but for the cries of = ape agony uttered by those who had to endure i To Cheyenne ears they were sounds so sweet and welcome, as to awake the intoxicated from their alcoholic slumbers, and call them up to be- | come sharers in the spectacle. Drunk and sober alike danced over the ground, as if they had been so many demons exhibiting their ‘salta- il ca, tory skill upon the skull-paved floors of Ache- | ron. Nor was their laughter restrained when they | saw that the punishment, hitherto confined to their male captives, was about to be extended to the women. On the contrary, it but increased their fiendish glee. It would be a variety in the eee oe new sensation—to see how the atter should stand it. And they did see; for several of the female slaves—some of them still young, others almost octogenarian ‘‘aunties ”"—were ruthlessly led up to the stake, to that martyrdom of water, pain- ful as fire itself! CHAPTER XVI. THE WHITD WOMEN. For more than two hours was the fiendish spectacle kept up—a tragedy of many acts; theugh, as yet, none of them ending in death. But neither actors nor spectators knew how soon this might be the termination of it. So horrified were the captives, they could not calmly reflect; though, from the heartless rev- elry around them, instinct itself guided them to expect very little mercy. he discrimination shown in their punishment led some to entertain a hope, All, both blacks and whites, now knew with whom they had to deal; for, in a whispered conversation among themselves, the story of Blue Dick was told to those of the emigrant party who had never heard of him before. And the slaves who were not of the Blackad- der plantation, as also the white men to whom these belonged, began to indulge in the belief that they were not to be made victims to the vengeance of the mulatto. They were allowed time enough to reflect; for, after some ten or a dozen of the female slaves had been douched, to the delight of the young Nigpi ryan and the apparent satisfaction of their chief, there was an interlude in the atrocious performance. The renegade, as if contented with revenge—at least, for the time— had turned away from the waterfall, and gone inside his tent. Among the three captive groups, there was | none in which apprehension could be more keen than that composed of the white women. had to fear for something dearer to them than life—their honor. Several of them were young, and more than one good-looking. Not to know it they could not have been women. Up to that hour the savages had not insulted them. But this gave them no assurance. They knew that these loved wine more than women; and the whisky taken from the despoiled wagons had hitherto diverted the savages from intrud- ing upon them, It could not long continue, for they had been told of something besides this. The character of cold incontinence given to the forest-Indian —he who figured in the early history of their country’s colonization—has no application to the fiery Centaurs of the prairie. Al! they had ever heard of these suvages led to this conclusion: and the white women, most of them wives, while thinking of danger to their husbands, were also apprehensive about their own. She who had no husband, Clara Blackadder, suffered more than any of them. She had seen her father’s corpse lying upon the prairie sward, bathed in its own blood. She had just ceased to behold her brother subjected to a punishment | she now knew to be fearfully painful; and she was reflecting what might be in store for her- self, She remembered Blue Dick well. As his mas- ter’s daughter—his young mistress—she had | never been unkind to him. But she had never been specially kind; for some influence, exerted by the slave Sylvia, had rather turned her | against him. Not to actual hostility; only to showing of disfavor. heart of the planter’s daughter had been so oc- cupied with its own affairs—its love for the young stranger O’Neil—it had little room for any other thought. The same thought was still there; not dead, but surrounded by a woebegone despair, that, even now, hindered her from feeling, keenly as she otherwise might have done, the danger of the situation. Still she was not insensible to it. The Chey- enne chief in passing, had glared angrily upon her, with an expression she remembered more than once to have seen in the eyes of Blue Dick. As Sylvia’s mistress, as the friend and confidant of the quadroon slave, more than all, as the sis- ter of Blount Blackadder, she could not expect either grace or mercy ‘rom the mulatto. She knew not what she might expect. It was pain- | They The truth was, that the | ful to think, still more to converse, upon it with | the women around her. These did not talk or think of her fate. It was sorrow enough for them to reflect upon their own. But she had more to dread than any of them, and she knew it. With that quick in- stinct peculiar to women, she knew she was the conspicuous figure in the group. As the horror of the situation came palpably before her mind, she trembled. Strong as she was, and self-willed as through life she had been, ' she could not help having the keenest apprehen- sions. But along with her trembling came a deter- | mination to escape, even with Snively’s example | and failure before her face! She might be overtaken. No matter. It could not increase the misery of her situation. It could not add to its danger. At the worst, it could only end in death; and death sbe would accept sooner than degradation. She was but slightly tied. In this the Indians do not take much pains with their women cap- tives. It is not often these make any effort to get free, and when they do, it costs but little trouble to track and recapture them. | Still have there been instances on the prairies; where brave, heroic women—even delicate la- dies—have contrived to esca from such cap- tivity, and in a manner almost miraculous. The | early history of the West teems with such epi- | sodes; and she, a child of the West, had heard them as part of her nursery lore. It was their remembrance that was partly inspiring her to make the attempt. She did not communicate the design to her fellow-captives. They could not aid, but only obstruct her. Under the circumstances, it would be no selfishness to forsake them. One might deem it a wild, hopeless chance. And so, too, would she, but for a thought that had stolen into her mind. It had been suggest- ed by the sight of an animal standing near. It was her own horse, that had been appropriated | by one of the Indians. He was standing with the saddle on, and the bridle resting over the crutch. A riding-gear new to them had caught the fancy of the Sirians and they had left it on for exhibition. Clara Blackadder knew her horse to be a fleet one. “Once on his back,” thought she, “I might gallop out of their reach.” She had a thought beyond. She might get upon the trace which the wagons had followed from Bent’s Fort. She believed she could re- member, and return along it. And still another thought. At the fort she had seen many white men. They might be in- duced to come back with her, and rescue her captive companions—her brother. All this passed through her mind in a few short moments; and while it was so passing, she slipped off the thongs, that were Lut care- pared for a start. Now was the time, while the chief was inside his tent. CHAPTER XVII. A FLIGHT URGED BY DESPAIR. “Now or never!” was the reflection that passed through Clara Blackadder’s mind; and she was in the act of springing up from her re cumbent position, when a circumstance occur- red seeming to say, “never!” The mulatto had stepped out from the canvas | screen, and stood in tront of it; no longer robed in the costume of an Indian chief, but wearing the same dress he had woin as a slave on the Mississippi plantation. It was the same as on that morning when she had been a | ge of his punishment. He was the Blue ick of bygone days, only taller and stouter, But the coarse jean jacket and cotton trowsers. of copperas stripe, had been ample enough noi to be outgrown. ‘You'll know me better now, my old masters | and fellow-slaves,” he shouted out, adding a de | risive laugh. ‘And you, too, my young mis _ tress,” he continued, turning toward the grouy _of white women, and apprcaching it ip a tri- umphant stride. ‘Ha, Miss Clara Blackadder! You little thought, when one fine day you stood in the porch of your father’s fine house, looking calmly on while I was in torture, that, some other fine day, your turn would come for being tortured too. It has come! The rest, including your beautiful brother, have had a taste—only a taste of what’s in store for them. I’ve kept you to the last, because you are the daintiest That's always the way in a feast of revenge. Ha! ha! ha!” The young lady made no reply. In the fiend- lessly lapped around her delicate limbs, and pre-
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12 } ish glance cast upon her, she saw there was no | hope for mercy, and that words would be thrown away. She only crouched cowering before him. But even at that moment she did not lose presence of mind. She still contemplated spring- ing up, and making toward her horse. Alas! it seemed impossible. He stood right in the way, and could have caught her before she had taken three steps. And he did catch her before she had made one—even before she had attempted to stand erect. “Come!” cried he, roughly clasping her waist, and jerking her to her feet. ‘‘ Come with me. You’ve been a looker-on long enough. It’s your turn now to afford sport for others.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he com- menced dragging her in the direction of the waterfall. She made no resistance. She did not scream, nor cry out. She knew if would be idle. But there was a cry sent from the other side of the glen—a shriek so loud, wild and unearth- ly that it caused the mulatto to stop suddenly, and look in the direction whence it came. Rushing out from among the crowd of negro captives, was one who might have been the old- est of them—a woman of near seventy years of age, and that weird aspect common among the old crones of the plantation. With hollow cheeks, and white wool thinly set over her tem- ples, with long, shriveled arms outstretched be- yond the scant rag of garment which the plun- derers had permitted to remain upon her shoul- ders, she looked like some African Hecate, sud- denly exorcised for the occasion. Despite the forbidding aspect, hers was not an errand of destruction, but mercy. “Let go hol’ of de young missa!” she cried, pressing forward to the spot. ‘‘ You let go hol’ ob her, Bew Dick. You touch a hair ob her head! Ef you do, you a t’ief—a murderer. Yach! wuss dan dat. ‘You be a-murderin’ ob your own fresh an’ brud!” ‘What do you mean, you old fool!” cried the mulatto, at the same time showing, by his looks, that her words had surprised him. ““ Wha’ de ole fool mean? She mean wha’ she hab jess say. Dat ef you do harm to Miss Clara, you harm your own sissa |” The mulatto started as if he had received a stab. “ My sister!” he exclaimed. bling, Nan. senses.” ‘®No, Bew Dick; Nan habn’t lost none o’ her senses, nor her ’membrance neider. She ’mem- ber dan’lin’ you on her knee, when you wa’ bit piccaninny, not bigger dan a ’possum. She nuss Miss Crara too bout de same time. She know who boaf come from. You boaf child’en ob de same fader—ob Mass’ Brackadder; an’ she you sissa. Ole Nan tell you so. She willin’ sw’ar it.” Fer a time Blue Dick seemed stunned by the startling revelation. And equally so she, whose wrist he still held in angry clasp. It was a tale strange and new to both of them. But the asseverations of the old negress had in them the earnestness of truth; more so at such a moment. And along with this were some gleams of light, derived from an indefinite source—instincts or dreams—perhaps some whis- rings over the cradle—that served to confirm er statement. Revolting as was the thought of such a rela- tionship to the delicate sensibilities of the young lady, -* did not attempt to deny it. Perhaps it might be the means of saving her brother and herself; and, for the first time, she turned her eyes toward the face of Blue Dick in a glance of appeal, t fell in sudden disappointment. There was no mercy there—no look of a brother! On the contrary, the countenance of the mulatto—al- ways marked by a harsh, sinister expression— seemed now more merciless thanever. His eyes were absolutely dancing with a demoniac tri- . umph. 5 “Sister!” he cried, at length, sarcastically, hissing the word through his teeth, ‘A sweet sister! she who all pf Ros life has been but my tyrant mistress! hat if we are from the same father? Our mothers were different, and Iam the son of my mother. A dear father, in- deed, who taught me but to toil for him! And that an affectionate brother!”—here he pointed to Blount, who, restored to his fastenings, lay stretched on the grass—‘‘ who only delighted in torturing me; who ruined my love—my life! Swect sister, indeed! you, who treated me as a menial and a slave! Now shall you be mine! You shall sweep out my tent, wait upon my In- “You're gab- You’re old, and have lost your dian wife, work for her, slave for her, as I have done for you. Come on, Miss Clara Blackad- der!” Freshly grasping the young lady’s wrist, he recommenced dragging her across the camp- ground. An involuntary murmur of disapprobation rose from the different groups of captives. During their long, toilsome journey across the plains, Clara Blackadder had won the good wishes of all—not only by her grace and beauty- but for many kindnesses shown to her travel ing companions, black as well as white. An Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. when they now saw her in the clutch of the | unnatural monster, being led, as they supposed, to the terrible torture some of them had al- ready experienced, one and all uttered exclama- | tions against it. They were not certain that such was the torture intended by the spiteful renegade; they only guessed it by the direction in which he was conducting her. Whatever might have been. his purpose, it was prevented. With a spring as if all the energies of youth had been restored to her shriveled frame, the old nurse rushed upon him; and, clutching his throat in her long, bony fingers, caused him to let go his hold. He turned upon her like an enraged tiger, and, after a short strugele, ending with a blow | from his strong arm, old Nan fell flat upon the earth. But on facing toward the girl to renew his grasp, he saw she was no longer within his | reach! While he was struggling with the ne- gress, she had darted away from his side, and, springing upon the back of her own horse, was urging the animal in full gallop out of the gorge! CHAPTER XVIII. THE STALKERS ASTONISHED. MAKING their way up the steep mountain- path, climbing over fallen tree-trunks, obstruct- ed by thicket and scaur, the bis ge at length got close to the cliff which, as *Lije Orton had told them, looked down on the camping-place of the Cheyennes, They had ceased talking aloud, and com- municated with one another only in whispers. There was a deathlike stillness in the pure mountain air, and they knew that the slight- est sound might make known their approach to the enemy. They had thrown themselves into a deployed line, after the manner of skirmishers, crouch- ing silently among the stunted pines, and glid- ing rapidly forward where the ground was without cover. Orton was directing them by signs; O’Nei) stepping close by his side, and near enough for the slightest whisper to be heard be- tween them. The young Irishman still kept impatiently urging the advance. Every moment of delay seemed a month to the heart of thelover. Over and over again came before his mind that hide- ous picture his fancy had painted—Clara Black- adder struggling in the embrace of a savage! And that savage the Yellow Chief of the Chey- ennes! These fancies were like the waves of a tem- pestuous sea, following one another at inter- vals. As each rose griml near groaning aloud. ® was only restrained by knowing the necessity for silence. As a re- lief, he kept constantly whispering to his old | comrade, and urging him to a more rapid ad- vance. “ Dod rot it, Ned!” replied the latter; ‘don’t | be so hurried ’bout it. We'll git theer in good time, take this chile’s word for it. Theer’s plenty o’ licker in the emigrant wagons, I guess. Them Massissippy planters don’t offen go travelin’ thout a good lot o’ corn. An’ as before him, he came | | left for the Injuns, they ain’t a-goin’ to trouble | theerselves ‘bout weemen as long’s the licker | lasts. Don’t you be uneezy; we'll git up time enuf to purtect the gurl an chestize the skunks as hev captered her; you see if we don’t.” ‘But why go creeping this way? Once upon the cliff we must declare ourselves. We can’t et down among them, as you say; and since it must all be done with our rifles, the first shot will discover us.” So it will; diskiver us to a sartinty. But theer’s jest the p’int. Thet fust shot must be delivered by a time. French trappers call it, they’d be off in the shakin’ 0’ a goat’s tail, perhaps takin’ thar pris- ‘ners along wi’ ’em. n’ whae ud we be to foller ’em? Thurfor, we must fix things so’s’t every one may take sight on different Injun at the same time: an’ then, afore they kin git o’ us at the same instinck 0’ | Unless we make a batter o’ them, as the | cl’ar out o’ the gully, we’ll be loaded fcr a see- ond shot. I guess that’ll make ’em think o’ somethin’ else than totin’ off thar captives. Keep y’ur patience, young fellur! Trust to ole *Lije Orton, when he sez y’ur gur! air still safe an’ soun’.” The anxious lover, despite his anxiety, could not help feeling confidence in the words thus whispered. More than once had he seen ’Lije Orton acting under circumstances of a like try- ing nature, and as often coming out triumph- ant. With an effort he restrained his impa- tience, and imitated the cautious approach of his comrade. They were soon sufficiently near the edge of the cliff, to hear a murmur of voices rising u out of the valley. As the ears of all were we attuned to such sounds, they knew them to be the voices of Indians. And these could be no —_ than Yellow Chief and his band of marau- ers. A halt was made; and a hurried council held, | about the best mode of making attack. “There must be ne’er a noise among ye,” whispered ’Lije, “‘not the speakin’ o’ a word, till | we've got one to fire at’em. Then churge y’ur rifles ag’in quick’s ever you kin. Two sets o’ shots oughter thin ’em, so they won’t mind "bout thar captives, nor anythin’ else, ‘ceptin’ to streak it—that air, sech as be left 0’ ’em.” This counsel was delivered in a whisper, and in the same way passed along the line. “Only one-half o’ ye fire at a time,” con- tinued *Lije. ‘You fellurs on the left shoot first. Let the t’others resarve for the second volley. “I'won’t do to waste two bullets on the red-skins. Leave Yellow Chief to me. I hev got a ole score to settle wi’ thet Injun.” With these precautions, communicated from to right, the trappers once more ad- vanced—no longer as skirmishers, but in line, and asnear to one another as the inequality of the ground would permit. The talked loudly and in a tone of authority. They could even make out some of the words, for they were in English! his gave them a surprise; but they had scarce time to think of it, when there arosea chorus of cries, uttered in quick, sharp intona- tion, that told of some unusual occurrence. Among these were the screams of women, At the same instant the og ce | of hoofs resounded along the rocks, as if a horse was going off at a gallop over the hard turf of the prairie. Then succeeded another chorus of yells—a confused din—and soon after the pat- tering of many hoofs, as of a whole troop of horses following the first. The sound, reaching the ears of the trappers, carried their eyes out toward the plain; where they beheld a sight, that caused one and all of them wild throbbings of the heart. Upon the prairie, just clearing the scarped edge of the cliff, was a woman on horseback. Ata glance they could tell it was a young girl; but as‘her back was toward them, they could neither see face nor features. She was in a lady’s saddle; and urging her horse onward as if riding for life—her skirt and hair streaming loosely be- hind her. There was one among them that knew who she was. The quick instinct of love told Ed- ward O'Neil well the fugitive upon horseback was Clara Blackadder. His instincts were aided by remembrance. That magnificent head of hair, black as the plumage of a raven, was well remembered by him. It had often been before his fancy in the lone bivouac—at night entwining itself with his dreams. ‘Oh, heavens!” he exclaimed, ‘‘it is Clara nvr right, Ned,” ded °L “Yur right, Ned,” responde ije, gazing intently after her. ‘‘Darned ef it ain’t her, that very gurl! She’s a-tryin’ to git away from ‘em. See! thar goes the hul o’ the Injuns arter her gallopin’ like h—” As Orton spoke, the pursuers began to appear, one after another passing outside th urging their horses onward with blows and loud vociferations. , Several of the trappers raised their rifles to the level, and seemed calculating the distance. “For y’ur lives, don’t shoot!” cautioned *Lije, speaking in a constrained voice, and makin himself understood by a wave of the hand. “ It kin do ne’er a good now, but only spile all. Let ’em go off. Ef the gurl gits clur, we'll soon track her up. Ef she don’t, they’re boun’ to bring her back, an’ then we kin settle wi’ ’em. Ireck’n they’re not all arter her. There’s some 0’ the skunks still below. Let’s jest see to them: an’ then we kin lay out our plans for them’s hev rid out in the purshoot.” *Lije’s counsel was could now hear the voice of a man; who} e cliff-line—} ———__.—_——- Pathe |
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r . Blue Dick. unanimously accepted, and the gun-barrels brougnt down again. ** Lie clost hyur,” he again counseled, ‘‘ while some 0’ us steal forard an’ reconnoiter. Harry, s’pose you kum ’longs wi’ me.” His purpose was understood by Black Harris, who on volunteered to accompany the old trapper—his senior in years, and his equal in rank among the ‘‘ mountain men.” “ Now, ys!” muttered ’Lije, on leaving them, “lie close as I’ve tolt you, an’ ne’er a word out 0’ one 0’ ye till we git ck.” So saying, he crept forward, Black Harris by his side—the two going on hands and knees, and with as much caution as if they had been ap- proaching a herd of antelopes. The glance of the others did not follow them. Ali eyes were turned downward to the prairie; watching the pursuit, now far off and still going further across the open plain. But no one watched with such anxiety as O’Neil. It absorbed his whole soul, like some pent-up agony. Hisvery breathing seemed sus- pended, as he crouched behind the dwarf cedar- tree, calculating the distance between pursuers and pursued. How he regretted having left his horse behind him. What would he not have given at that moment to be on the back of his brave steed, and galloping to the rescue of his beloved? Perhaps his suffering would have been still more acute, but for the words just spoken by his old comrade. The girl would either get off, or be brought back; and either way, there was hope of saving her. With this thought to con- sole him, he witnessed the spectacle of the pur- suit with more equanimity. So, watching it with eager eyes, he awaited the result of the re- connoissance. Crouching slowly and cautiously along, Orton and Harris at length reached the edge of the cliff, and looked down into the valley below. A lance enabled them to comprehend the situa- ion. It was just as they had conjectured. The white and negro captives seen in separate groups, guarded by something less than a moiety of the Indian band, and these reeling over the ground half intoxicated. ‘“‘They’ll be a eezy capter now,” said ’Lije, ‘“‘and we must capter’em. Arter that, we kin kill ’em ’ithout much noise.” ‘“Why not bring up the rest, an’ shoot ’em whar they stand? We can rub out every red- skin of ’em at a single volley.” ‘* Sartin we could; but don’t ye see, old hoss, that ’ud niver do. Ye forget the gurl; an’ she are the only one o’ the hul lot wuth savin’, I reckin; the only one I’d give a darn to waste powder for. Ef we wur to fire a shot, the purshooers out yonner ’ud be sartin to hear it, and then good-by to the gurl—that is, if they git their claws on her ag’in.” “T see what you mean; an’ you're right. We must bag this lot below, without makin’ a rum- pus; then we can set our traps for the others.” ** Jess so, Harry.” ‘* How are we to do it, think ye, "Lije? We'll have to go back to whar we left our horses, and ride round by the open eend of the valley. That way we'll have them shut up like sheep in a pen. ‘No, Harry: we hain’t time to go back for the anymals. Afore we ked git roun’ thar, the Seeagge & mout catch the gurl and be comin’ ck. Then it’ud be no go. I bethinks me o’ a better way.” Black Harris waited to hear what it was. “ge, know a pass,” continued ’Lije, ‘‘ by the which we may git down wi’ a leetle stretchin’ o’ the arms. If we kin only reech bottom afore they see us, we'll make short work o’’em. But we must be cunnin’ ’beoutit. Ef but one o’ the skunks hev the chance to eescape, the gurl ’ll be lost sure. Thar ain’t a second o’ time to be wasted, Let’s back to the boys, an’ at oncest down inter the gully. CHAPTER XIX. SETTING A STRANGE SCENE. RETREATING from the edge of the cliff with the same caution they had approached it, the two mountain men joined their companions in ambush, ’Lije, after making known his design, led them toward the pass of which he had spo- ken—a sloping ravine, the same up which Snive- ly had made his vain attempt at escaping. Screened by the scrub-cedars, the trapper party succeeded in descending it, without being perceived either by the Indians below, or the captives over whom these were keeping but careless watch. Their sudden appearance upon the plain was a surprise to both; to the latter a joyful sight; ers ae to the former a terrible apparition—for they saw in it the quick harbinger of death. Not a shot was fired by the assailants. On the moment of their teet touching the plain, they flung aside their guns; and drawing dag- gers and knives, went at the Indian sentinels, in a hurried but silent slaughter. There was grappling, struggling and shouts; but the attacking party outnumbered those at- tacked; and in less than ten minutes’ time the shouting ceased—since there was not a living Indian upon the ground to continue it. Instea was the green meadow sward strewn with dead bodies, every one of them showing a bronze- colored skin, horribly enameled with gashes or gouts of crimson blood! The captives were in raptures of joy. They saw that their rescue was complete. The whites both men and women, sprung to their feet, and struggled with their fastenings—wishing to have their arms free in order to embrace their preservers; while the negroes, none of whom were bound, came pouring forth out of the cul- de-sac, where they had been hitherto penned up, uttering frenzied shouts. “Keep y’ur groun’ an’ stop y’ur durned shoutin’!” cried ’Lije, with a gesture waving them back. ‘‘ Don’t one o’ ye stir out o’ y’ur places. Back, back, I say! Stay as ye wur, till we gi’e ye the word. An’ you alser,” he continued, running to the other side and check- ing the forward movement of the whites, ‘‘hunker down jest as ye did afore. We hain’t finished this show bizness yit. Thar’s another scene 0’ it to kum.” _ stances the horse seems to be stirred by some- thing 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 wouid be more than a match for her, and if overtaken, she must succumb. There was no bope for her but in the swift- ness 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 ur- | gency, did his best; and galloped onward, as if his own life, as well as that of the rider, de- pended upon his speed. It was all to no purpose. Ere the fleeing girl had made another ae across the prairie, the close clattering of hoofs gave warning that the | pursuer was rapidly drawing near; and, giving Both negroes and whites were a little sur- | prised at being thus restrained from the full ebullition of their joy. But the earnest tone of | the old trapper, sustained as it was by the ges- | tures of his companions, had its effect on them; and all at once cowered back into their original position. could not guess; but, released from the agony of fear, they were willing to wait for it with patience. What was the intention they | They soon beheld a spectacle, so strange as | almost to restore them to terrified thought. | They saw the dead bodies of the Indians raised from their recumbent position; set up beside their long spears, that had been previously planted in the ground; and lashed to these in such a manner as to sustain them in an erect attitude. They were distributed here and there over the sward, most of them close to the cap- tives, as if still keeping guard over them! Those not so disposed of were dragged off and hidden away behind the large bowlders of rock that lay at the base of the cliff. ‘* Now!” thundered the old trapper, address- ing his speech to the captives, white as well as black, ‘‘ef one o’ ye stir from the spot ye’re in, or ventur’s to show sign o’ anythin’ thet’s tuk | place, till ye git the word from me, ye’ll hev a rifle bullet sent plum’ through ye. The gurl hez got to be rescood ’ithout harm done to her; an’ [ reck’n she’s wuth more then the hull 0’ ye thegither. an’ thet’s by y’ur keepin’ y’ur heads shet up, an’ y’ur karkidges ’ithout stirrin’ as much as a fin- ger. So don’t make neery movement, ef ye vally y’ur preecious lives. Ye unnerstan’ me?” | The captives were too much controlled to make rejoinder; but they saw, by the earnest- ness of the old pe pe that his commands mo to be obeyed, and silently resolved to obey them. After delivering the speech, have turned to- ward his trapper companions—all of whom knew what was meant, and who, without wait- ing word or sign, rushed to their rifles—still ly- ing on the ground, In a few seconds they had regained them; and, in less than five minutes after, not a trap- r was to be seen about the place. They had disappeared as suddenly as sprites in a panto- mime; and the little valley seemed suddenly restored to the st«te in which it had been left, when the pursuers of Clara Blackadder swept out of it. Any one glancing into it at that mo- ment could have had no other thought than that it contained the captives of an emigrant train, _ their Indian captors keeping guard over m. CHAPTER XX. 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 Lis speed; for under such circum- Thar’s but one way 0’ savin’ her, | a glance back, 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 agonizing, 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 bro- ther. 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 serve me and mine as 1 have served youand yours. Jt makes no matter if I am your brother, as.old Nan says. You’ve got to come back with me, and see how yowll like being a slave. We keep slaves among the Indians just as you proud planters of Missis- sippi. Come along with me, and see!” the young lady made no resistance; nor did she say a word in reply. From what she had al- ready 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 steps—the former sitting erect in his saddle, exultant of success; the latter with bent attitude, and eyes regardin® the ground in a look of deepalr, e Indians soon came up with their chief; and the captive was conducted back toward the scene where she had witnessed so much sufler- ing. pa 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 reflec- tion. 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 twi- light within the little valley. But as they ad- vanced, there was light enough for them to dis- tinguish the other captives still lying on the grass, and their comrades keeping guard over them. So thought the Yellow Chief, as, on reach- ing 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 bad 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 mount- ed the ridge, were seen halted upon its summit, as if something was causing them surprise or alarm. it eonld not be any thing seen in the en- Their faces were not turned in that Caidpiuciiv. ee
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14 direction, but along the mountain to the north- ward. The chief, sudderly 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 sete was a troop of horses without riders. | approach. | of it. n 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 not 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 caval- lada of some camp that had ‘ stampeded.” An encampment of whites, or men of their own color? 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 con- clusion. The strange horses, at first scamper- ing in different directions, had wheeled back toward a common center; and jin 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 Chey- ennes that they were not Indians. On first seeing them, the Yellow Chief had commanded his followers to take position be- hind a clump of trees standing upon the slope of the ridge, and hindering observation from the northward. There, for a time, they con- tinued to observe the movements of the riderless horses. What seemed strange was, that there were nomen 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 ayes of the Indians, no owners appeared to be after fhem. For some time the Cheyenne chief and his fol- lowers sat gazing upon the cavallada, and en- deavoring to explain its presence. They could make nothing out of it, beyond the fact of its being a troop of stampeded ani- mals, And these could only have come from a camp of whites; for neither the horses nor their trap- ings 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 af- ter 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. a They remained in ambush only long enough to see there were no men in sight of the stray- ing 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. ey were all provided with their lazos, and there could be little difficulty in eye oe | the strays, to all appearance docile, asif jad 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 seek- ing permission to ride off in pursuit. 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 XXI. A PLEASANTER CAPTIVITY. Ir the sight of the straying horses had caused surprise to the Indians, not less astonished were they who, within the valley, were awaiting their The trappers, placed in a well-con- trived ambush, had seen Yellow Chief as he as- cended 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 Two lateral ravines running some dis- tance into the face of the rocky cliff, and thick- ly 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. Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. Trusting to their guns, pistols, and | | knives, as well as the panic, which the surprise | | would undoubtedly create, they intended making Not only | |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 had | little place; less for a Cheyenne; and less still for the band of braves led by Yellow Chief—a name Jately distinguished for treacherous hos: tility toward trappers, as well as cruelty of every kind. “ Let’s kill every red-skin 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 make out the expression of their coun- tenances. 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 paienied by the movement. “Thar must be something queery on t’other side,” he wispered to O'Neil, who was in ambush by his side. ‘‘That ’ere movement can’t a be from any thing they’ve see’d hyar. .They wa’n’t lookin’ this way. Durn me, if I kin make out what’s stopped ’em!” Of all those awaiting the approach of the In- dians, 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 im- pressed 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 the pallor of complexion, natural to a daughter of the South, had been replaced by a red suffusion of the 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 compan- ions on the journey. From them he had learnt enough to know that Clara Blackadder was yet unwedded. Something, too, of her mood of ha- bitual 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 conjec- tures 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 agonized whisper, to his more patient compan- ion. ‘‘Supposing they suspect our presence? They may gallop off, and take her alongs 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 cit a glimp’ 0’ one o’ us, they’ll be sartin to stampede. Don’t show the tip o’ y’ur nose, Ned; for y’ur life, don’t!” The counsel might not have been heeded. O’Neil was in an agony of impatient appre- hension. It seemed so easy to rush up to the summit of the ridge, rescue her he so dearly loved. He felt as if he could have out- run the swiftest horse. end alone vanquished the full band of savages that surrounded her. and Yielding to the impetuosity of his long con- strained passion, he might have made the sui- cidal attempt, had he not been stayed by the next movement of the Indians, who, to the sur- prise of all, both prisoners and trappers, were seen to turn their backs upon the encampment, leaving the young girl in charge of a single savage! Even then Orton found it difficult to restrain O’Neil from leaping out from his am- bush 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 piers cage speech hisse into O’Neil’s ear. ‘ Hev patience one minnit and she’ll coflumix right into y’ur arms, like a barked squirrel from the branch 0’ 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 obedi- ence to the hurried order of his chief, the savage had taken the bridle of her horse, and com- menced 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 places 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 toa certain stoicism; but, considering the ex- citing scenes that had occurred, this was be- yond expectation. For all, the thing caused him no suspicion. How could he have a thought of what had trans- pired in his absence? He advanced without further pause, leadin the captive’s horse, till he had passed throne 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 from the bushes sprung 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 dee into his dorsal ribs, causing him to drop dea 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 recognized one who, for five lon years, had been alike the torture and solace o her thoughts. CHAPTER XXII THE SCENE RE-ARRANGED. Epwarp O’Nei held Clara Blackadder in his arms. He now knew she loved, and had been true to him, though not from any words that passed between them. There was scarce time for them to do more than pronounce one another’s names; but the lance exchanged was eloquent to the hearts of th. 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 to- gether they were again parted by the trappers; who, with ’Lije Orton and Black Harris direct- ing them, had hastily commenced re-arranging the ambuscade, Every moment they might ex- pect the return of the Indians. A scout, who had hurried up to the crest of the ridge, tele- graphed back why they 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 de- struction of the predatory band. ee
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tet ee . te Blue Dick. “‘ Let’s rub them out, every red-skin 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! ’twon’t do to go foolich aboutit. Though thar’s no fear o’ these hyur skunks tellin’ tales, we must take percaushuns forall that. This nigger wants propping up like the rest o’’em. When that air done we'll be riddy to gi’e’em thar recepshun.” The others knew what ’Lije meant, and has- tened to reset the stage for the next scene of the sanguinary drama, 15 white men’s horses had “smelt Indian,” and with crests erect, and snorting nostrils, showed signs of making off. or a period of ten minutes there was a con- fused movement upon the plain—a sort of irre- gular tournament, in which horses ridden by dusky riders, and others without any, were mingled together and galloping toward every point of the compass; long, slender ropes, like snakes, suddenly uncoiled, were seen circling through the air; wild cries were heard, sent | forth from ascore of savage throats—the clamor | increased by the shrill neighingof horses and the While the scout on the crest of the ridge kept | them warned as to the movements of the In- dians, the others were busy placing the tableau | that was to greet them on their return. The young lady was directed to assume a half-re- | cumbent attitude on the grass—her horse still | saddled standing near. Close by was the dead body of the savage to whose keeping she had been intrusted; not seeming dead, but propped keeping guard over the captive. All was ar- ranged 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 exe- cution of similar schemes. When every thing was fixed to their satisfac- tion, the cere returned to their ambush; as before, distributing themselves into two par- ties—one for each side of the gorge. A vedette 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 itarval of strange reflection with the young Irishman O'Neil. almost within reach of his arms—upon the shriller hinnying of the mules—while the firm prairie turf echoed the tread of over a hun- dred hoofs, And soon this tableau underwent a change. The dark, moving mass became scattered over a wider surface, and here and there could be seen, at intervals apart, the oft-lescribed spec- tacle of a horseman using the lasso: two horses | at opposite ends of a long rope stretched taut Before his eyes— | grassy sward, he saw lying that fair form | which for long absent years had remained viv- | idly outlined in hismemory. How he longed to go nearer, and embrace her! And all the more that he perceived her glance turned to- ward the spot where he lay concealed, as if en- deavoring 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 de- scending 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 yer- Black Harry or myself, ye'll have a chance o’ wipin’ out any scores ye may hev run up ’twix 9. r 7 ‘ . ; . y’urselves an’ Yellow Chief. Don’t neer a one | between them, tails toward each other, one of life-like by the side of his own horse, as if still them standing with feet firmly planted, the lasso fast to a stapled ring in the tree of his saddle; the other prostrate upon the ground, with the rope wound around his neck, no longer struggling to free himself, but convulsively to get breath. And soon again the tableau became changed. The captured steeds were whipped back upon their feet, and their captors once more got into a clump together, each leading a spare horse, that followed without further resistance, Some had none; while others, more fortunate | or skillful, had succeeded in making a double take during the quick scramble. After the more serious work of the morning, it was a light and pleasant interlude for the young Cheyennes, and as they returned toward their camp, they were full of joyous glee. Still were their thoughts damped with some suspicion of danger. The novelty of such an easy razzia had in it also something of mystery; andl as they rode slowly back over the prairie swells, they cast anxious glances toward the north—the point from which the stampeded horses had come. But no one was in sight—there was no sign of a human being! Were the owners of the lost horses asleep? Or had they been struck dead before the scat- tering commenced? The mutual congratulations of the savages, on the handsome coup they had made, were re- strained by the mystery that surrounded it; and, with mingled feelings of gladness and ap- prehension, they once more approached the | spot, where, as they supposed, their comrades | and captives awaited them. selves purfectly cool for about ten minutes | longer, an’ wait till ye git the word from | | might be nigh. 0’ ye touch trigger till the last of the cussed | varmints hev got cl’ar past the mouth o’ this | hyur gully. An’ then wait till ye hear the sig- nal from me. It'll be the crack o’ my rifle. Arter that the Injuns ain’t likely to hev any chief; an’ ye kin go in, an’ gi’e ’em eturnal dar- nation.” In ten seconds after he had ceased speaking not a trapper was to be seen near the Indian encampment; only the captives, with their sen- tinels 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. CHAPTER XXIII. THE STAMPEDERS CAPTURED. In starting in chase of the straying cavallada, the Cheyennes did not go off at full speed. The tacle of over twenty horses saddled and bridled, wandering about without riders on their backs, or the sign of an owner following after them, was one so novel, that, while causing astonishment to the savages, it alsc arouse their instincts of caution. And still, it might be the ruse of an enemy, with the design of drawing them into an ambuscade. Partly for this reason, and partly that the ownerless ani- mals might not be scared into a second stam- “de, and so become difficult of capture, the theyennes rode toward them slowly and de- liberately. As they drew near, however, and still no white men appeared in sight, they quickened | their pace, and at length broke into a gallop— | charging at full speed upon the sauntering drove, This had become necessary, as the They went with as. much speed as the led horses would allow them. Their chief, cunning as he was courageous, suspected that danger Jhere there was smoke there should be fire; and thinking of this old adage, he knew that where there were over twenty capari- soned horses there must be at least this number of men not far off—men who could only be en- emies. Now that the animals were in his pos- session he was sure of their owners being white. The saddles, bridles, and other he eee were such as are never, or only occasionally used by the red-skinned cavaliers of the prairie. To gather up the spoils taken from the emi- grant train, along with the captives, and take apeeay departure from the place, was now his esign. He was thinking of the triumph that awaited him on his return to the head-town of the t Cheyenne tribe; of the welcome he would re- ceive bringing back such a booty—horses, spoils, prisoners, these last to be distributed as slaves; of his increased glory in the nation, his promo- tion among the leaders, and the hope some day to become head-chief of the Cheyennes; all these thoughts passing through his mind made him highly exultant. And _there was the other thought—revenge ‘over his enemies in early life—those by whose tyranny and persecution he had been driven forth to find a home, and along with it honor, among the red-men of the wilderness. ' His fiendish spirit felt sweet joy, thus revel- Ing in revenge; and as he rode back toward the camp, where he knew his victims awaited him, he might have been heard muttering to himself: “They shall serve me, as I have served them. And she who is called my sister—she shall be my slave |” CHAPTER XXIV. FINALE, THE sun was already close down to the sum- mit of the sierra, when the Yellow Chief and | : his followers once more surmounted the ridge that brought them in sight of the encampment. Although the daylight was still lingering around them, the little glen and the gap leading into it were obscured under the purple shadows of ap- proaching night. There was light enough left for the Indians, however, to discover the salient features of the scene. They could see the various groupings of their prisoners, with their comrades standing sentry over them; the white men on one side; the women near; and on the opposite edge of the valley, the sable crowd, some seated, some standing—in all respects, apparently, as they had parted from them when starting on the pur- suit of Clara Blackadder. Apart from all the rest they saw her, with the Choctaw keeping watch close by, his hand clutching the withers of his horse. The picture was complete. Nothing seemed wanting. No one was there who should not have been; nor any one missing. Who could have had suspicion, that close to those silent groupings there were others equally silent, but unseen and unsuspected? Not the young Chey- enne braves returning with their captured horses; not the daring chief at their head. Without the slightest warning of the surprise that awaited them, they pushed through the gap, and on the level meadow toward the spot occupied by the prisoners. It was not until they had drawn up amid the captive groups that things seemed a little strange tothem. Why were their comrades so still, so silent? They did not think of those lying stretch- ed along the grass—in all about a dozen. They had left them there, and knew that they were intoxicated. But the guards standing erect— why were these so undemonstrative? It was a thing unusual. Returning with such spoil, they might expect to have been hailed by a pean of congratulations. There was not even a salute! It was a puzzle—a mystery. Had there been a better light, it might sooner have been solved! The blood sprinkled here and there over the grass; the gashes that would have been visible on the bodies of the sentinels; their stiff, set attitudes and ghastly faces—all would have been apparent. But over all was the vail of a fast- darkening twilight, and through its obscurity only the outlines of their figures could be traced, in positions and attitudes seeming natur- alenough. It was the absence of all motion, coupled with the profound silence, that seemed strange, ominous, appalling. ‘*Waboga!” cried the chief, addressing him- self to the Choctaw, whé stood guard over the girl. ‘‘ What means this? Why do you stand there like a stump? Why do you not speak?” No answer from Waboga! “Dog!” cried the mulatto, ‘‘ if you don’t make answer, I'll have you nailed to that cioss you have yourself erected. Once more I ask you: what is the meaning of this nonsense?” The threat had no effect upon Waboga. It elicited no answer—not even the courtesy of a sign! % Slave!” shouted the chief, leaping from his horse, and rushing toward the silent sentry. ‘I shall not give you the grace of a trial. This instant you shall die!” As he spoke a blade glistened in his hand, which, as his gestures showed, was about to be buried in the body of Waboga. The sentry stood stanch, apparently regard- less of the death that threatened him! The chief stayed his hand, surprised at the un- paralleled coolness of the Choctaw. Only for a momént; for as he stood rding him, now close up to his body, he saw what ex- lained all—a gash great as he could himself ve inflicted! Waboga was already dead! The horse upon which the Choctaw was lean- ing, scared ty the threatening gesture, shied to one side, and the lifeless form fell heavily to the earth! The knife dropped from the hands of the Cheyenne chief, and, witha wild, abstracted air, he tvrned toward his followers to seek an explanation. ut before a word could be spoken all was ex- plained. A cordon of dark forms was seen closing up the entrance of the valley: the word “Fire!” was heard, followed by a serried sheet of flame, and the .sharp “‘ crack, crack, crack,” prociaim- ing the discharge of a score of rifles. It was the last sight seen by the Yellow Chief—the last sound heard by him before passing into eternity. And the same with his freebooting band. Not one of them went alive out of that valley, into which the trappers had decoyed them!
Page 16
16 The emigrants continued on to California, now with diminished numbers; for along with the leader, several others had been killed in the attack upon the caravan. But, besides the dead, there was one living | who went not with them. Now that her father was no more, Biackadder from staying behind, the man of her choice; mos Trehnn wi? tion. And she did so; not to share humble home, but a residence far more spiendid than the old plantation house in the ‘‘ Choctaw Purchase.” As the Irish tr apper had declared it, Edward O’Neil was one of the ‘‘Onales of along with no reason w hy she should | Shs seats Tipperary, a gintleman on both sides av the | house”: and in due time the property belong- ing “io Scvh sides cf the house becams his, Ts mi be chivalry. that he did not take his youu Southern wire there, where she might feei ione ly im a tand of strangers. equal evidence of his Tipperary estates, and invested the money in the purchase of town-lots upon an islet he had learned to love even more than the “gem of the seas.” It was the Isle of Manhattan. There he still lives, happy in the companion- ship of his beautiful and faithful wife: cheered by sweet children, and at intervals, by the presence of his old comrade, *Lije Orton; who, now that railroads have penetrated the far prairies, comes occasionally to pay him a visit, and keep posted up in the lore of the ‘“‘ Mountain men.” THE END. But it gave THE NEW YORK Fireside Library. Ten Cents each, Double or Single numbers. 1 Was Sue His Wire? Mrs, Mary R. Crowell... 10c. there was no one to hinder Clara | or caviliza- : ‘th him an |} good sense that he sold off | 2 Fiexrine From Love. By Harriet Irving .... 10c. 3 Dip He Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell.... 10c. 4 A STRANGE Woman. By Rett Winwood .... 10c. 5 Nap, THE Russian Spy, F. Whittaker....... 10c. 6 Two Grats’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell. 10c. 7-8 Lavy AUDLEY’s Secret. By Miss M. E. Brad- GU icc teseds ted ictines ber OL te ae 10c. 9 Tae War or Hearts. dorinné Cushman ... 10¢. 10 Letauton Granae. Miss M. E. 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