The Indian to the fragment of his tribe, and the white man to his companions, and again both parties proceeded, each leader giving a far different version of the meeting, and each one shaping it to suit his own ends. A scant mile, and they were brought into full view—neither rock, tree or hill obscured their vision.
“There they go, the cowardly thieves,” shouted the Mormon, as he waved his little troop on.
“There come the false warriors of your tribe,” whispered the Black Eagle, in the ears of the shrinking, yet hopeful girl—shrinking from him and hopeful of rescue. “Yes, like wolves, they come, but let the maiden beware. The knife of the Black Eagle is keen-edged and his tomahawk heavy—his bow-string is strong, so is his arm. Let her not try to leave his side, or—”
The shouts of the Mormons urging on their steeds, and the desperate rush of the spur-driven brutes, admitted of no further threatening. The ranks of the Indians were formed to resist the attack, and their arrows flew thick as hail, but, purposely aimed too high, passed over the heads of the white men. So also was it with the bullets of their adversaries. It was soon front to front, and hand to hand, and seemed more like a bloodless tournament—a base and senseless imitation, gotten up as a foolish aping of the chivalry of olden times, than the meeting of two races that ever have and ever will be enemies. But this rough play could not long continue without arousing fierce passions—fierce hands clutching the ready weapons in earnest. One of the Mormons, more powerful and better mounted than the rest, succeeded in breaking the ranks of the Indians, and gaining the side of Black Eagle, who had remained in the rear to keep guard over the girl. It was Elder Thomas who should have been there—he was to have been the savior, and loud he commanded his impetuous follower to turn back. Possibly, he was unheard in the din of the, as yet, bloodless strife. At any rate, he was disregarded, for the brawny Mormon saw the girl and dashed to her side, perfectly regardless of all the opposition that attempted to stay his course.
“By heaven!” he shouted, “it’s the very gal that we used to see, and that sung so sweet to us at Laramie. Down with the cursed red-skins, boys! Give them no quarter, the infernal brutes!” and his pistol-butt struck the Black Eagle full upon the skull, and leveled him to the earth in a moment.
Vain now were all attempts at control. A fierce blow had been struck; a chief of the Dacotahs hurled from his horse. In less than a minute, knife and pistol were doing their deadly work. Wildly pealed the fierce battle-cry of the savage; loudly and clearly it was answered by the challenge of the white man. The innocent trial of strength had been changed, quick as thought, into the fearful tumult of the battle-field. Now, death’s dark hounds must lap their fill of human blood!
But it was of short duration. The superior skill, strength and weapons of the white man could not long be withstood, and, with many wounded though none killed, the Indians withdrew, commanded still by the Black Eagle. The chief had been but stunned for a moment, and soon separated himself from the melée. But it was to find himself standing face to face with Elder Thomas, both effectually cut off by the combatants from the girl. The narrow valley denied them footing on either side, and when, at length, they had succeeded in drawing off their followers, they looked in vain for milk-white horse or snowy prisoner! They had vanished, as if the earth had swallowed them.
In sullen silence the parties of the white and red-man separated, but each with dark thoughts of revenge at heart. Ah, many a peaceful traveler has paid, with life, the price of that day’s work. Many an unwary man has been shot from behind rocks and trees—has died with the poisoned arrow festering in his side; or, worse perchance still, been robbed of all, and left to lingering death by starvation. And many a red-man, too, has been shot down in very wantonness—has fled from his burning wigwam, and seen all he loved perish, literally butchered by bullet and flame, like sheep in the shambles. Yes, the Oregon trail is beaten down hard as iron with the hoofs and wheels of the thousands of emigrants, but so, also, is it lined upon the map with blood.
CHAPTER XI.
PARTING—A LONELY RIDE—A NIGHT STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Rapid riding soon brought the party of Waltermyer to the first swell of the mountain. A rest here was necessary, but the frontiersman granted it grudgingly, for his iron frame despised repose when any exciting purpose urged him forward. With the horse he was master of, an animal that between sun and sun had coursed his hundred miles, it was very difficult for him to realize that the steeds of others could grow faint upon so short a trail. But his keen eye told him that some of these poor wretches, at least, were sorely distressed, and his kind heart would not permit of cruelty to the meanest beast alive; yet he chafed at the moments thus wasted, as he said, when one in whom he had become so strangely interested was a prisoner, either with the Indians, or—and, in his view of the matter, far worse—the Mormons.