The red wizard, or, the cave captive

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Very frequently the sound of voices reached his ears, and he learned enough to satisfy him of the treachery of Parsons, and swore a deep oath that the scoundrel should suffer for his villainy.

Satisfied that no actual harm had come to either of the prisoners, this greatly relieved his mind, and gave him patience to wait until the hour came when he could continue his scout.

It came at last, and fortunately the night was dark and stormy. Almost with the going down of the sun the clouds had begun to gather, the wind to blow and the rain to fall, and, knowing that the Indians would not long remain from under shelter, he watched yet a little and then drew more near.

An hour passed. Then some brute of an Indian, who had managed to conceal a portion of the fire-water that had been taken from the wagons of the emigrants, came staggering along and fell over him—saw him, and drawing his knife attacked and at the same time endeavored to give the alarm.

The situation of the scout became desperate. If the noise reached the wigwams—if the warriors learned that a white man was skulking so near, there would be no possibility of escape, and if he attempted to strangle the Indian his knife would not be idle. Indeed, he had already been slightly wounded.

But there was no time for thought. With a mighty blow he felled his assailant to the earth, and before he could recover sprung upon him, falling so that his knees struck full upon his breast and completely taking away his breath. That accomplished, the rest was easy. He immediately obtained possession of the knife that had been aimed against his own life, buried it in the heart of the Indian, left it sticking there, and, finding that he was quivering in death, coolly turned him upon his face, arranged him so that it would appear as if his life had been accidentally taken, and retreated to the opposite side of the village.

The temptation was very strong to supply himself with weapons, but he could only gratify it at the expense of the danger of detection, and was forced to wait a better opportunity.

Driven by the storm, the Indians left the camp-fires early, save the few who were detailed to watch the male prisoner—the female one being secured by the attendance of squaws—so that, with the exception of numerous dogs, the coast was clear, and the scout no longer hesitated to enter the village, though his movements were of the most crafty kind.

Fortune was in his favor, for, even as he came near where the physician was confined, the discovery of the dead Indian was made, and the guards rushed thither—at least he fancied so—and was about to enter the wigwam, when two of them, who had been concealed, sprung upon him, and a desperate struggle ensued. And very hard would it have been for him had he not been fertile in expedients. Shaking loose, he dodged between the legs of the foremost and threw him like a bombshell into the face of the other, darted to the nearest fire, caught a handful of blazing brands, and whirled them, as he ran, into the wigwams, causing screams and dismay, and forcing the majority to stop and put out the flames.

Still a few swift-footed ones followed; the race was rapid, and, to the scout at least, over unknown ground. But on he dashed until his progress was suddenly stopped. A wall of rock rose in his path—the fierce cries of the savages were ringing in his ears like a death-knell—there was not a single instant for delay. He gave one swift glance and boldly leaped. At some distance below he had seen a tree, and calculated to alight in its branches, trusting to luck for what should follow. He did so, but luck was against him. The impetus was too great—he whirled entirely over—caught his foot in the forks and hung suspended between heaven and earth, without the possibility of release.