THE MOUNTAIN MAN IS REINFORCED.
The Piegan captains remained squatted at the council fire, thoughtfully smoking.
After directing Doña Rosario, for this was the young lady whom he had saved from the Manitobans' clutches, to be attended to in a hut placed wholly at her service, Cherokee Bill wrapped himself up in buffalo robes to steam himself dry and drive away rheumatism. The others respected his curative withdrawal from the conversational circle, but evinced some anxiety lest his catching cold should spoil his voice.
The way things had come about was thus:—
We know that it was arranged that Doña Rosario should be put in the pannier of a riding mule, so that the party of gold seekers might travel by a straighter road. Meanwhile, Filditch and Williams were hovering about them as closely as they dared, cautiously exchanging brief confidence with Joe and Dearborn up to the critical moment. Then the Spanish girl was to be aided by the two friends of Ridge.
The plan was so simple and infallible, that the girl gleefully adopted it.
Soon after the second day's start in this order, whilst the mule was yet fresh, Filditch and his companion sprang on two outriders and pulled them to the ground. Unfortunately, Foxface, whom the Californian had thrown, was up again like lightning and encumbered the other as he was trying to mount in the warm saddle. The result was, that Bill was on horseback and riding alone at the point in the file where he could take Rosario's mule by the bridle.
It is true Filditch kicked the man away, but the delay was fatal. He was compelled to plunge into the woods at the side of the ravine where this occurred, or be the target for twenty rifle shots.
During this the Cherokee had executed his project. Thanks to his whoop, which set the animals curveting, and the increase in the confusion due to Joe, Leon, and Ranald, no one could get an effectual shot at the abductor of the young girl as the two dived in at a gap in the underwood.
But there was too much of a good thing. Rosario's mule was not alone in attraction towards the coquettish mare which the Cherokee had stolen. A number of the animals set up a cry at the mare's whinny, and for a moment the stampede threatened to be general. To be left without a hoof under them in the wild woods is the worst fate known to men like Kidd's command. They flew to work with superhuman activity, daring, and strength, and secured most of the frenzied animals. Still, a dozen had tailed off after Bill and the girl, very deeply to his disgust. But the only thing was to move on with the torrent of horseflesh of his own originating. In time they could be beguiled into a steep path, where, by dragging Rosario into a niche, the rest would hurl themselves by and be gone irreturnably.
Here, again, calculations were upset by the Half-breeds on their way to rendezvous with Kidd at the fixed place.
Bill saw them only in time to take a new course. But Dagard and a few of the better mounted started off after the straggling line, of which they at once cut off two or three hindmost. But the others freshened up at being so harried, and the kind of wild hunt continued hotter than ever. The thunder of the added coursers continually reminded the Cherokee that these woodsmen were not easily to be outridden and thrown off so broad a track.
"Are you brave?" inquired he of the girl, flushed and excited by the mad gallop.
"I do not know, judged by your measure," she replied; "but there's one thing sure, I would sooner kill myself than fall again into those ruffians' power."
"That's the true talk? By the way, have a knife," he said, putting a sheath dagger into her hand as if he were offering a bonbon to a child. "You may want it, though I fancy you have no great shakes to fear. I am responsible for you."
"Thank you. I believe in you."
The flight continued, only that the Canadians, being less wearied, gained like a whirlwind on a fleeing wayfarer.
Cherokee Bill had his Winchester "fourteen shoot" and a brace of heavy revolvers—a portable magazine.
"Keep on galloping," said he, "smack into the running water. You shall have a warm-up beyond. I reckon it will also be hot enough here!"
So saying he blazed away at the Half-breeds for six shots. Down went the men out of the saddles, the rest being terrified by the accuracy of aim and the long, killing range. Meanwhile Bill and the girl effected the crossing and came upon the plain where the Piegans were encamped. The reader knows the sequel. For the nonce Doña Rosario was safe.
The day advanced, and yet the Cherokee seemed loth to check his contemplation of mental pictures. Red Knife made up his mind to begin the talking.
"Are the ears of my father open?" he asked.
Bill had become a father for wisdom after having been a brother for valour.
"What is my son's desire?" was the counter query.
"The Piegans want the Cherokee sage's advice."
"The Piegans are boys of mine at my knee. Speak away."
"The Raven is a wise bird—a bird that scents a battlefield from afar. He flies straight to the mark. As the coyotes and wolves join to track the deer, so the bad whites and mixed bloods join to take hold of the red man's territory. What is my father's opinion on this? What ought the redskins to do when the mine robbers threaten to invade the holy ground of the Basin of Fire?"
Without replying in words, the Cherokee looked about him. In one spot a chalky seam cropping out was soaked with blood from the butchered game. He pointed to the white earth on one side of the red stain, and then scratched the soft substance up with his fingernail. But to scrape the blood-caked chalk, hardened into stone, he was forced to use his hunting knife. He took up a handful of the soft dust and slowly let it fall through his open fingers.
"This dust is the Indians, uncemented by their blood; they are grains that a child's breath could spin into the river. United by blood, a block is formed which turns the edge of a knife. Do my brothers comprehend?"
"I do," answered Red Knife. "The Raven of the Cherokee counsels us to be one. Before now we have done the same, and waged war. Perhaps, had not some weaklings and traitors fallen away, a great and lasting victory would have been ours. But our enemies are powerful as they are. What if the white trappers and hunters unite with these Canadians and the Men of Montana?"
"You need not fear that. Oil and water do not blend."
"But the Old Man of the Mountain, the friend of the Cherokee, would he not come to the aid of the Piegans?" asked the chief, subtly.
"But the white trapper is alone—" began Bill.
"He may be alone at this hour, but my spies speak of the lone trappers converging to join him. Does not the Cherokee know—his moccasins have crossed the traces of theirs?"
"I know what I know. The Old Man has no secrets from his brother. The trappers are massing, that's a fact."
"To what end? Will he guide the gold seekers into the Enchanted Valley, where the holy fire rages, which my father has drank."
"No. Jim Ridge loves the Yellowstone—he does not want a whole caboodle of scourings to be poured into its lovely glades and peaceful parts, where the fawns come up and lick your hands."
"Ah! Does the old Yager wish the help of the Piegans to keep off the whites? Is his Cherokee mate sent to ask that help?" came from the Red Knife, in a coaxing voice.
"Lor', no," responded Bill, coldly. "On the other hand, the old man never refused help to an Indian who played him fair. Many a poor wretch, frozen out, has been succoured by him—more than fed, mark you; clothed in fine fur, and given a gun and powder and ball, with the promise only understood that he should not use them on any of Jim's colour. But never has he craved any return for what he has done. That's his style, chief. What the Raven says is dictated by the friendly spirit in his very bones, with which his mother tempered them. He has no mission from anyone. But still, if to drive away these gold thirsty dogs, ay, and to crush them, the Piegans want the trapper's help, who entertains no kindly feelings for the disgraces to their race, then find out whether he will give it. It is a sachem that you have heard. Ponder over his words."
Bill rose and retired to a tent made ready for him. He was left alone to recruit till about sunrise, when the chiefs flocked round his tent door with all the ceremony laid down by Indian etiquette. The medicine man hallowed the tent, so that they could hold a council smoke, and this was Red Knife's proposal:
"After considering the words of the Cherokee chief, the headmen of the Piegans have come to this conclusion: Quorinnah is a wise man; he knows that only boys and squaws, having no keenness or experience like trained men, who have made their mark, set about things unthinkingly, and with no conception of their extent. The Piegans do not ask in this fashion, being men of war. The chief, subchief, captains, and big braves of the nation have resolved to say this: The Cherokee chief loves his brothers, the Blackfeet. His heart is red, and prompts him to speak good counsel, and that counsel has been debated on. It is true the Old Man of the Mountain has punished trap robbers and ravagers of the cachés, and that he has given shot for shot when fired on. But if he has shed blood, he, too, has had his blood spilt. Let the rock moss and the desert sands drink the blood up of both foe and friend of ours, and say no more about it. On the other hand, the Yager has helped many a naked, starved, gunless Indian about the Yellowstone, and on the highland slope. He has defended the Enchanted Valley, and never has he offered men to guide his white brethren within its bounds of fire and steam and smoke. He is alone, yet he does not need help. But we do. Never in our memory, or on the painted books of the tribe history in the sacred lodge, have so many evil men been covering the wilderness. Lo! The buffalo and the bear are driven away by the reek of strange campfires, and the birds hurry from the uproar of carouses. The Raven of the Cherokees speaks true. He comes on no errand from the Great White Trapper. But the Piegans, proud to have the slayer of six-at-full-gallop-under-their-own-eyes as their guest, claim a service of him: the chiefs desire to see the Yager of the Yellowstone. Did they know where to meet him, they would go forth in their best clothes to greet him; but the Mountain Man is a great hunter—he disguises his trail neatly, and his fort is an undiscoverable refuge. But the Cherokee chief knows where his friend abides, and he will go to him, and say, 'Old Man of the Mountain, your sons the Piegans have a weight on the heart, a skin over their eyes—they beseech your help, with the wondrous gun that sends death so far and so true. Come to their aid against their enemies, who are yours; come quick; let your presence console and make joy displace the grief that eats up their heart.'"
Bill did not in the faintest believe in the more than temporary sincerity of the speaker, but he spoke so feelingly, that he joined in the murmur of applause which hailed the final words.
"The saying of my brother, the renowned of the Piegans, ring sweetly in my ear," returned the Cherokee half-breed. "What the Piegans wish, the Raven will do this night. Away goes the cloud on my brother's heart! Leaving the young paleface girl in his brother's keep, the Raven will fly. I have spoken all that is in me."
"The young paleface maiden is not here, we see only a sister of the Piegans," answered Red Knife, nobly. "She is in the shadow of the totem pole of the tribe, her head is pillowed on the ark of the Blackfeet Piegans. No danger shall befall her, though the Cherokee chief stayed away till the moon and stars fell out of the sky, and the sun burnt itself to a dead coal and dropped also into the lakes!"
An hour afterwards, at dusk, Bill Williams rode out of the camp, confidently. As we know something of the singular telegraphing and telephoning which the old trapper and his comrade employed to correspond secretly, we need not describe how again they conferred without the overhearers piercing the mystery. A little before sunrise, the Cherokee was back at the Piegan resting place. Red Knife was awake, and eagerly awaiting him at the inlet.
"What does the old father say?" queried he, after the customary greeting.
"These are the trapper's words," returned Bill, gravely. "'Am I to be deaf to the appeal of redskin brothers who are fighters and not thieves? No! When the sun is so high that there is no shadow at the base of the tree, then I shall be in the Piegan camp.'"
"Good, good!" said the sachem, cordially, "I thank my father for having swiftly and fully kept his promise. The white trapper will be welcome."
At this moment, hearing Bill Williams' voice, the door flap of Doña Rosario's tent house was pushed aside, and she came forth. Albeit she was in complete safety among the red men, her precarious position filled the dainty girl with restlessness. Throughout the night she had been kept awake by excessive nervous excitement, caused by reflections on recent events, and the pain from bruises and thorn scratches gained during the flight. In the pannier she had been shaken about more than in a cockboat in a chopping sea. She was glad to have her enfevered forehead kissed by the cool morning breeze. She came out over to the two principals, and saluted them with a grateful but still rueful smile.
Red Knife, with that innate delicate grace common to all men who live unfettered in the open air, bowed to her respectfully, and kindly asked how she rested. To encourage her, he repeated that she had nothing to fear from her enemies, as she should never fall again into their hands.
"Thank you, chief," she rejoined; "but," she added, with a brightening eye of deep proud determination, "if, in spite of your powerful protection, those ruffians had succeeded in seizing me again, they would have carried away merely the dead. I would have slain myself rather than have yielded."
With a significant gesture, she flung aside the hem of a Mexican blanket, showing the knife in her waistband.
"'Tis a brave girl," remarked Red Knife, smiling dubiously, for he had his own ideas about using a dagger on himself before he had struck out all he could; "but the steel was useless, my sister being under the guard of the Sacred Emblem, and my warriors would have fought to the last shot for her."
As, in our other Indian stories, we seem to have pourtrayed their treatment of white women in a different light, we beg to say in this digression that there is really no contradiction in sense. The southern Indians are not to be trusted with women, but the northern races and those descended from the ancient nations of the Northeast and Atlantic coast are of opposite morality. The latter will make white women slaves, but never their wives. The Half-breeds spring from the union of red women and white men, it is to be remembered, which in no wise gainsays our statement of an incontestable truth.
Cherokee Bill was too profound an observer and was too familiar with the thoughts of white people and red people, to say nothing of Mexican ones, not to understand Rosario's doubts and dreads. So he hastened to inform her that Jim Ridge would soon be present. This intelligence much exalted her; hope at once was kindled in her bosom and warmed her heart with its beneficent rays. It seemed to her that this celebrated adventurer's intervention must be advantageous to her. This was apart from Mr. Dearborn's promising that he would confer with the Man of the Mountain and compact for her rescue and Miss Maclan's. It is true the Cherokee had only saved her; but, perhaps, already something had been done in as effectual, if not in so dashing, a mode to save her dear companion.
She found time to ask Bill about his partner in the friendly abduction, but he had only spoken with Ridge, who had seen nothing more of Filditch than himself.
"Patience," said he, calm as a "whole red man," "he would not have travelled with me in the warpath unless he was capable of taking care of himself alone."
Quite as impatient as the girl were all the Piegans to receive the famous old explorer; but they had donned the motionless mask which the savages use to hide even the deepest feelings on public occasions.
If we were in town, we should say the hour of twelve sounded when all the Indians, questioning the country with glittering eyes, grunted with pleasure. A horseman was seen to be clearing a piney wood at the extreme limit of the horizon, and gallop in a beeline towards them. He was alone. At a glance he was recognised as Jim Ridge.