As yet, all the Indians we had met with on the Plains had been of friendly tribes, and at this time no danger was anticipated. I was already some six or seven miles from our train, on the upper side of the North Platte, past what they call the Rattlesnake Hills, when I beheld approaching me a party of Indians. At this time, I was unaware what tribe they were, although now I should pretty readily be able to tell that they were Cheyennes. These are generally hostile to the whites, unless overawed by superior numbers. I necessarily mean, a proportionately superior number—about one, perhaps, to three. The party approached me in an apparently friendly manner, or else the fleet gelding I was mounted on might easily have distanced them. On approaching nearer, they requested, in the usual Indian manner, for tobacco or powder. The first, I readily enough gave them. The latter I was not inclined to part with. Suddenly one of the Indians drew closer to me, and laid his hand on my rifle. I pulled it back from him, and at the same moment was grasped round the waist from behind, by a savage whom I had not previously noticed.
My desperate struggles were in vain. I was torn from my horse, and in a few moments more found myself weaponless, with my arms pinioned behind me, and lashed on the back of one of their ponies. The raw hide-whangs round my waist were tied so tightly as almost to stop the circulation.
The animal was then turned loose, and followed with whoop and yell by the savages as if they had been nothing else than a band of devils. The Cheyenne who was probably their chief had appropriated my horse. How madly I wished that Charlie would throw the red demon as he galloped after me, shouting and whooping like an incarnate fiend.
In that mad race, for at the moment I almost fancied the Indians and myself were all lunatics on a wild race to the infernal regions, what a paroxysm of despairing thought rushed through my mind. Was I to go out of life something like the dying snuff of a candle, without one free blow in a square fight? And these were the Indians I had read of as a boy, these cowardly, sneaking red curs, who had not dared to give me a chance for my life. Great God! Where was Brighton Bill and my other companions? What would Captain Crim say if he ever heard of this? Then I thought of my father, Pinkerton, Maggie Mitchell; and, as my wife's face rose on my vision—my good little wife, I could or would think no more. All became momentarily a blank. Again, however, I returned to my senses. I heard the whooping yell of the red devil who was astride of my gelding, Charlie, and I cursed him in good round Saxon, as if he could understand me.
But what is the use of dwelling upon this. After a ride of some two hours and a half, in a fashion I had never expected to attempt, my captors came in sight of an Indian village.
Here I was cut loose from the pony upon which I had performed the most painful feat of horsemanship I had ever attempted, and dragged instead of led into the presence of the chief of the tribe. All the inhabitants of the village surrounded me. Squaws, old and young, papooses of either sex, and all the components of an Indian mob, were crowding around the white captive.
One only face I saw which displayed anything like pity. It was that of an Indian girl of some sixteen years. Whether it was pretty or ugly, I knew not. I only felt that I saw sorrow in her large and star-like eyes, as they gazed upon me.
Curiously enough, they gave me a sensation of hope. The moment before I had been madly desiring that the drama of life, with me, might come to an end. Now, I began to think and weigh my chances, which, to own up, at the present moment appeared slim enough for safety.
My hands and arms seemed almost dead, and some minutes elapsed before they recovered the consciousness of life. Looking in the face of the chief, I saw that he was an old man. As in great age it not unfrequently happens, his face had regained somewhat of the kindliness of youth. At any rate it lacked the repulsive character which marked that of my captor. Suddenly, it seemed to me—was I dreaming? No! This time, I was certain of it. He had made the Masonic sign of distress. The girl's sympathetic glance had been palpably an omen of good.