"We must hold a 'medicine council,'" continued the Old Man of the Mountain; "so back to our friends!"
They had to take their return route with more caution than in coming, since the Crows were no doubt at hand. But their intimate knowledge of the ground enabled them to avoid any contact. Thanks to the detour they traced, and to the infinite pains with which they scanned every square yard of the scene, they perceived that a small party had come to a halt in the rocks. These were not Blackfeet; and they thought at the first that they might be the Crows, of whose presence Filditch's moccasin had given an intimation. In any case, they crept up to the shallow dug out den in the side of a shale and sandstone cliff, and, when the faces were distinguishable, rose out of the cover, and boldly went forward, waving their open right hands in token of peaceful intentions.
Indeed, the group of seven men was friendly. Two more were collecting wood for a fire, luckily for them not yet burning.
It was the remnant of Sir Archie Maclan's hapless expedition.
Usually, a meeting place at a distance is agreed upon by a troop, in order that, after dispersal by an attack, the rally may be made for a reprisal or to affording a strong front in retreat. This precaution had not been taken by the English gentleman's heterogenous company. Still, by some natural law prevailing in the wilderness, the few who escaped the savages had come together. Lame, weaponless, imperfectly clothed, driven to eat roots painfully scratched out of the frozen soil, they regarded the two trappers as almost superhuman, glowing, as they were, with health, and formidably armed, and quite at home in the desolation.
At their first words—thanks to Ranald's account of the disaster—the newcomers knew with whom they had to deal. These were, save one (a Surcee Indian), the Scotch hunters. Though the Hudson's Bay Company men are instructed to show no cordiality towards free trappers in actual practice, they usually hobnob when they meet. Here, as Jim Ridge at once promised them supplies if they would accompany him to a cache, the fraternisation was speedily perfect, and when Cherokee Bill, bound to the mountain home to bring back Ridge's nephew and Mr. Dearborn, left the rejoicing fugitives, they were toasting the Old Yager in trading whisky, and vowing to follow him to the edge of the Firehole Basin, and then over.
Two hours afterwards, the Cherokee returned with the whites, and the reception of Ranald was hilarious by his comrades, now equipped and crammed to repletion. Whilst these lost ones "found in every comfort," as they said, were still recompensing themselves for their sufferings in the unconstrained mode of the desert, the chiefs of this now redoubtable band conferred on the plan of action.
Filditch was alone his own master, and placed himself at his relative's orders; Cherokee Bill judged that the "old hoss knew best;" Ranald, freely appointed leader of the Scotch contingent, offered their services as blindly, and Jim had only to debate with himself.
"Gentlemen," said he, "that either the Crows or the Bob Rulies should slaughter one another in a fight is no item for my book. But those white women are innocent creatures, wives, and sisters, I daresay, of poor settlers, who are now lamenting their unknown fate. We are not numerous enough to match either band now, but when they thin one another out with a general shoot, one vigorous charge might place the captives in our hands. When we so charge Bill will look to the horses; and once we can ride off, I answer for a safe haven for the whole cahoot (cohort) in a nest in the mountains. Woe to any that follow us, for I am conceited on not letting Tom, Dick, and Harry collect on my front doorstep. Is that a good notion, brothers?"
"It will do."