CHAPTER IV.
THE PROPHET’S CHILD
A wild place among the hills, on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. At the base of a cliff is a rude hut, forming the entrance to a cave in the rock. A plateau before the cliff commands a view of broken hills and ravines, becoming less rugged as they descend and finally melting into the wide expanse of prairie that stretches endlessly toward the east.
Among these hills and ravines a fearful scene is being acted. A party of Arapaho Indians have been surprised by a band of Crows, who have attacked them with such vigor that they are flying in all directions, pursued by their bloodthirsty and vindictive adversaries. The air resounds with shouts and yells, with screams and shrieks; blood is scattered plentifully upon the hills, and the ravines are filled with horror.
From the plateau in front of the hut two persons are gazing at the terrible sight below them. One is an old Indian with bent form and white hair. A blanket is wrapped around him, and his countenance expresses the deepest distress. The other is a girl of the same tribe, tall and graceful, much lighter in color than the Arapahoes, with long and wavy hair, and with beautiful features. She stands as if spell-bound, and watches the carnage with eyes full of fear and anxiety.
“Come, my child,” said the old man. “Our enemies are victorious, and we must fly.”
“Is it really you, my father?” she asked, turning upon him with a look of wonder. “I thought you had gone to the spirit-land.”
“I had; but my people were in danger, and I returned.”
“Can you do nothing to help them? Many of them have been killed, and the rest are flying in all directions. What Indians are those who are pursuing them?”