Chapter Eighteen.
“Through a Glass Darkly.”
About a month later than the events just detailed, a solitary individual might have been descried occupying one of the high buttes overlooking a large tract of the northern buffalo range, somewhat near the border between the territories of Montana and Wyoming. Howbeit, we must qualify the statement in some degree. Save to the keen eye of yon war-eagle, poised high aloft in the blue ether, the man was not to be descried by any living thing, for the simple reason that he took very especial care to keep his personality effectually concealed.
Beneath lay the broad rolling plains extending in bold undulation far as the eye could reach, stretching away to the foothills, and then the distant snow peaks, of the Bighorn range. No cloud was in the sky. The atmosphere in its summer stillness was wondrously clear, all objects being sharply definable up to an incredible distance. From his lofty perch the man looks down upon the surrounding country as upon a map lying outspread before his feet.
That something is occupying his attention is evident. Lying flat on his face, his gaze is riveted on the plain beneath. What object has attracted his keen vision—has sufficed to retain it?
Crawling onward, unwinding its slow length like some huge variegated centipede, comes a waggon train, and, though it is at least ten miles distant, the observer, from his vantage-ground, can with his unaided vision master every essential detail—several great lumbering waggons, veritable prairie schooners, their canvas tilts looking like sails upon that sea of rolling wilderness; a little way ahead of these a lighter waggon, drawn by a team of four horses. He can also make out a few mounted figures riding in front.
“Looks a pretty strong outfit,” would run his thoughts, if put into words. “Looks a pretty strong outfit. The boss—two guides, or scouts—six or eight bullwhackers—a chap to worry the horse team—probably two or three more men thrown in—a dozen or more all told—possibly a score. But then—the family coaches—Lord knows how many women-folk and brats they hold—all down-Easters, too, most likely, who never saw a redskin, except a drunken one at the posts. A dozen men ought to be able to stand off the reds; and anyhow whether they can or not the next few hours will decide. But then they’ve got their women to look after, and their cattle to mind. No, no; they must be idiots to come crossing this section at this time of day.”
The observer’s reflections are, to say the least of it, ominous for those who belong to the waggon train. Let us see what there is to justify them.
Far away in front of him, at least as far as the waggon train itself—ahead of it, but rather off its line of route, is another object; an object which he has espied before the outfit appeared, and the sight whereof has kept him immovable on his lofty observatory for upwards of an hour. This object the inexperienced eye would hardly notice, or would pass over as an indistinct clump of scrub lying on the slope of a deep ravine. To the practised eye of the watcher, however, that object stood revealed in its true light at the very first glance, and it hardly needed the aid of the powerful double glass which he carried, and which rendered an object at ten miles almost as distinct as one at a hundred yards, to tell him that the harmless-looking clump of scrub was nothing less formidable than a strong band of Indians—a strong band of red warriors on the war-path.
“That’ll be it,” he mused. “The old game. They’ll jump that outfit at yonder creek while it’s unhitching just about sundown—rather over two hours from this. If those chaps are, as I suspect, down-Easters, they’ll be thrown into the liveliest confusion, and while a few of the reds run off every hoof of the cattle, the rest’ll rush the whole show. Their guide or guides can’t be worth a damn, anyhow, to judge from the free and easy way in which the whole concern is shuffling along. There’ll be fresh scalps among that war-party to-night, I’ll lay long odds; but—it’s rough on the women-folk, to put it mildly.”
To the ordinary observer there would have been something terrible beyond words in the situation. That little handful advancing fearlessly into the vast wilderness, their every step watched by the hawk-like gaze of savage videttes lying face to the ground on more than one of the adjoining heights, advancing step by step into the trap, heedless of the awful cloud overhanging their march, even that lurking band of the fiercest and most ruthless barbarians to be found upon the earth’s surface. And the radiant sun shedding the golden glories of his nearly run course upon the majestic vastness of those fair solitudes sank lower and lower to his rest, only too certain to be lulled in his far-off mountain bed by the crash and rattle of shots, the exultant yells of human fiends, the unheeded prayer for mercy, then massacre mingled with a demon orgie of sickening barbarity from the very thought of which the average mind shrinks in dismay. Well, what then? Only one more chapter of horror in the annals of the blood-stained West.
But if to the ordinary mind the situation would have been appalling, repulsive and incomprehensible to the last degree would have been the attitude of this man, who lounged there as cold-blooded a spectator of the coming struggle as a frequenter of the bull-ring awaiting his favourite entertainment, and in much the same vein; who saw those of his race and kindred advancing step by step to the most terrible form of death—for the chances in their favour were about equal to those of the bull when pitted against the cuadrilla—and made no effort to warn them of their peril. Yet had he delivered his mind on the subject he would coolly have justified himself by the explanation that in the first place he made a point of never interfering in other people’s business; while in the next he was a man who recognised no race or kindred, and who, if anything, had a greater respect for the savage red man than for the huckstering, swindling, lying white Christian. The former was man ruthless as Nature made him, the latter a nondescript product—equally ruthless, but plus hypocrisy and cant wherewith to cloak his blood-sucking propensities.
And now the waggon train was well-nigh abreast of his position. Cautiously adjusting his field-glasses so that no ray of the sun glinting on the lens should betray his whereabouts, either to friend or foe, he narrowly scanned the travellers. There were, as he had conjectured, females among them, two of whom rode on horseback among the group of men in front. He scanned the ground beyond, and not a detail escaped him, even to the heads of the three Indian scouts lying perdu, like himself, at intervals along a high ridge overlooking the line of march. Then he closely scrutinised the lurking war-party.
The latter was astir, and he could easily make out a sea of plumed crests and painted countenances, even to the colour of the pennons floating from the lance-heads. Warriors might be seen rapidly caparisoning their ponies, while others, already prepared for action, were gathered around the little group of chiefs in the centre apparently engaged in debate. It wanted an hour to sundown.
Once more he brought his glasses to bear upon the travellers. Suddenly the blood surged in waves over the man’s bronzed and sunburnt countenance, and his hand trembled to such an extent that he nearly dropped the telescope. What did he see? Pausing a moment, with an angry frown at his own weakness, again he sent a long, eager, steady look into the group riding ahead. What did the powerful lens reveal to upset the equanimity, to shake the very nerves of this cool, hardened, cynical plainsman? Among the group of advancing specks is a white one—a mere white speck. Framed within the lens, however, that speck becomes a white horse, and upon his back is a girl of extraordinary beauty. Surely this is not the disturbing factor? We shall see.
“That’s too good for our dear red brother, anyhow,” said the watcher half-aloud, shutting up his glass. Then, without arising to his feet, he slid behind the knoll. But before doing so he sent one more glance at the distant halting place of the savages. The band was on the move, riding slowly down into the ravine.