“You see,” said the “Crow-Killer,” pointing to the little path, “hyar’s where he comes. All these big chiefs go away from the rest at times; the other Injuns think that they go into the woods to talk with the Great Spirit, but, that’s all humbug. Now, we’ll put ourselves jist inside the thicket, an’ when he comes, we’ll jump for him. Now for a gag.” Then the old hunter took a small piece of wood, tore a piece of flannel from his shirt, and wound it round the wood, thus forming a ball; then, with his knife he cut a long strip from the tail of his hunting-shirt. “That will do to bind it in his mouth. Now for our ambush.”
Then the two men hid themselves carefully in the thicket—one on each side of the little path.
Just as the shades of night were descending over the Indian village, the two guides in ambush heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
A second more and the tall form of the “White Vulture” entered the little thicket.
Three steps he made within the wood; then, with the lightning dash of the panther, the “Crow-Killer” sprung upon and bore him over backward upon the earth, his broad hand clutching him by the throat and checking his utterance; but the “White Vulture,” though taken by surprise and unarmed, showed no disposition to cry for help. A moment he struggled with his foe, but the iron weight of the “Crow-Killer” was upon him, and then, after this brief effort, as if satisfied that resistance was useless, he lay motionless and silent, while the two guides stripped off his hunting-shirt—which was curiously trimmed with the fur of the grizzly bear—and his leggins from him; the gag had been placed in his mouth and firmly secured there; then they bound his arms and legs together tightly with their belts.
The warrior bore the treatment without resistance.
The “Crow-Killer” wrapped himself in the blanket of the chief. Dave put on the hunting-shirt and leggins. In the Indian’s pouch, as the guide had anticipated, they found red paint, with which they stained their faces, each acting as artist to decorate the other.
Casting a final glance at the prostrate warrior, the two whites left the little thicket and stalked toward the village. Dave had placed the head-dress of the “White Vulture” upon his head, when he became a perfect likeness of the Crow chief.
On went Dave with a slow and stately step, followed by the “Crow-Killer.” They reached the little isolated lodge. The braves, mistaking Dave for the “White Vulture,” took but little notice of him, and left their post as soon as he entered the little lodge. The “Crow-Killer” quickly followed, as if by order of the chief.
By the dim light of the fire that blazed fitfully in a corner of the lodge, Dave discerned a female figure reclining on a low couch of bear-skins; the face was hidden by the hands, but the red-gold locks, that hung down over her shoulders, told who the female was.