The red wizard, or, the cave captive

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

MUCK-A-KEE.

Much as all had appeared to give way to the white man, in the possession of his destined bride, yet there was at least one of the red-men who looked upon him with angry eyes and her with loving ones, and who was determined that she should fill his wigwam and minister to his comfort.

Muck-a-kee, or the Bull-frog—a brave of the most undoubted courage and cunning, but brutally savage disposition, had been inflamed with her rare beauty from the moment his eyes had rested upon her, and he had marked her for his own. But he was too wise to assert his preference as long as the white man was held in so much favor.

With envious eyes he had marked the scene in the cavern, and with envious ears had heard that, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she would be given to his rival. This he swore by the Manitou should never be done.

To accomplish his ends, he enlisted the old squaws who had guard over her by means of presents, and the very night she was to have been made a wife, the girl was missing, and not a soul could be found who could, or would, give the slightest information concerning it.

The guardian squaws declared that it must have been the work of spirits—that even while their eyes were fastened upon her they heard a terrible voice calling her by name, and that she melted away into air—passed through their fingers like smoke when they attempted to hold her, and that then they were struck down and blinded as if by lightning.

The rabble believed the story—the chiefs cared nothing about her so long as she was not destined to torture—the Medicine was trying to recover his lost ground, and in fact no one but Parsons appeared to take the slightest interest in her fate. He was angry without measure, and did every thing in his power to find some clue to her whereabouts, for he knew she could only have been taken away by mortal hands. But he searched in vain. She was as securely hidden from him as if already in her grave and her fair form ashes.

The abductor had been crafty. There was no impress of her little foot upon the ground—nothing by which she could be traced. And as it had been in fact, even so had she been led to believe the purpose. Taking the place of and disguised as one of the squaws, the Indian had filled her half-distracted brain with lies—made her believe that he was the friend of the white man—intended to release her lover, and that he wished her to come and meet him. At another time she might have doubted. But now any thing that promised to free her from Parsons was eagerly snatched at, and the wily warrior carried his end with far less difficulty than he had imagined, and while the village was locked in slumber Olive stole out like a shadow, met him beyond the limits of the wigwams, submitted to be lifted in his brawny arms and carried along the bed of a creek, whose water obliterated every trace, then mounted, he riding behind, and borne swiftly to a considerable distance—where she knew not—scarcely cared, so long as it was beyond the power of the black-souled renegade.

Before daylight they had reached the top of a mountain and found a newly erected wigwam, with another standing near that showed the marks of many a storm. The former was to be her home for a time, and she saw that it had been fitted up with some effort at comfort, for it was covered with double skins and carpeted with them.

"This," said the warrior, craftily playing the part of friend and taking every possible means to gain her good-will, "is your resting place. Here you will be in the most perfect safety."