JIM BRIDGER.
“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted some young bucks. “Paleface he look like pig. Ugh! Ugh! He no fight. He run away.”
Bridger grew crimson, but said nothing.
“Paleface waddle like duck,” continued one of the Blackfeet. “Paleface have nose like black dog.”
This was too much for the usually calm and collected Jim Bridger. Spinning upon his heel he rushed up to the nearest redskin, hit him a blow between the eyes and sent him reeling to the ground. Immediately the whole camp was in an uproar. The trapper was surrounded by a yelling, screeching mob of savages—was made a prisoner—and was carried, struggling, to a lodge upon the outskirts of the village. Then the Indians gathered in a dense throng in order to decide upon the fate of their captive.
There was much discussion as to what was to be done with the scout. Some were for a light punishment, as the trappers in the block-house were numerous, and their rifles were accurate shooters when held by the steady hands of the frontiersmen. “No! No!” shouted many others. “He should be carried to the mountains and there tortured. He has struck one of our braves. The paleface must suffer death!”
Three older chiefs listened to all of this wild talk and then gave their decision.
“The Paleface shall suffer death and torture! Let some of the young men go to his lodge and bring him to us.”
With a wild whoop, a number of the youthful warriors rushed to the tepee in which they had shoved the trapper, stoutly bound with deer thongs. As they threw open the flap which hung over the doorway surprise and dismay marked their features, for the bird had flown. All were chagrined and angered at the loss of their quarry. Whooping savagely, they dashed back to their companions, many of whom favored an immediate attack upon the block-house; but the counsel of the older chiefs prevailed.