Up the lateral ravine rode Wa-ka-ra with his dusky warriors; while the second division, intended to take station on the bluff, defiled by the same track, but more slowly. The rest of us kept on down the gorge.
On reaching the main cañon, the party destined for the opposite bluff separated from the other; and proceeded circuitously by a branch ravine that opened to the upper plain.
The fourth and last division rode direct down the bank of the river—upon the path by which I had been pursued. This division was in charge of the second chief; and to it was I myself assigned—with Peg-leg, also a volunteer, as my immediate companion. The trapper had himself some old scores to settle with the Arapahoes; and appeared as eager for the fight as any Utah in the tribe.
Apprehensive of falling in with some straggling pursuers of the preceding night, we moved forward with caution. The sub-chief was an old warrior, whose scars and grizzled hair betokened experience of many a hostile encounter, and no doubt many a cunning stratagem. Scouts were sent in advance; and these, returning from time to time, signalled that the path was clear. Advancing in this fashion, we at length reached the embouchure of the cañon, and halted within its gloomy shadow.
As yet not an Arapaho had been seen: but, on climbing to a ledge of rocks, I had the satisfaction to perceive that these brigands were still by the butte. I saw not them, but their horses—the cavallada being almost in the position in which I had left it! From this it was evident, that they had returned from the pursuit: had abandoned it altogether, and given their steeds to the grass. Only a few of the men were in sight—moving about among the fires, that still burned upon the plain; but the strength of the cavallada told that the others were there—no doubt, concealed from our view by the interposed mass of the mound. I saw the waggon at its base—the white tilt conspicuous against the dark-green foliage of the cedars. But my eyes dwelt not upon this. In rapid glance, they were carried to the summit.
The crucifix was still there. I could trace its timbers—its upright and horizontal beams—though not distinctly. I knew what was rendering their outlines indistinct. There was a body upon the cross—the body of a man. It was that which interrupted the regularity of the lines. The timbers were between me and the body—for I viewed it from behind—and at such a distance, I could not have told who was the crucified man, even had he been facing me. Wingrove or Sure-shot—one or the other. Of that much I was certain. I could make out that the man was naked—just as I had been myself: I saw his white skin glistening along each side of the upright post.
While gazing upon it, I heard the report of a musket. Nearly at the same instant, a little blue-coloured cloud was ascending into the air. It rose from behind the butte; and was easily recognisable as smoke produced by the discharge of a gun. The savages had returned to their cruel sport. Too clearly did I comprehend the signs of that fiendish exhibition. After regarding the crucifix for awhile, I noted a circumstance that enabled me to decide which of my comrades was undergoing the terrible ordeal. To a certainty, Sure-shot was the sufferer. The Red-Hand had fulfilled his threat; and my brave preserver was now promoted to my place. The circumstance that guided me to this knowledge was sufficiently definite. I could tell it was Sure-shot by his height. I remembered that my own crown scarcely reached the top of the upright post. That of him now enduring the torture rose above it—by the head. Under the bright sunbeam, there was a sheen of yellow hair. That of Wingrove would have appeared dark. Beyond doubt, Sure-shot was the martyr now mounted upon that dread cross!
I viewed the spectacle with feelings not to be envied. My soul chafed at the restraint, as it burned with bitter indignation against these demons in human form. I should have rushed forward to stay the sacrifice, or, if too late, to satisfy the vengeance it called forth; but I was restrained by reflecting on the impotency of the act. The prudent chief who commanded the Indians would not move, till the smoke-signal should be given; and videttes had climbed far up on the cliff, to watch for and announce it. It was not anticipated that we should have long to wait. Our party had moved slowly down the defile; and the time consumed in our advance was considerable—almost enough to have enabled the others to get to their respective stations. This thought—along with my experience of the ball-practice of the Arapahoes—in some measure reconciled me to the delay. If he upon the cross was still living, his chances of escape were scarcely problematical. Another shot or two from such marksmen would be neither here nor there. If the unfortunate man were already dead, then was the delay of less consequence: we should still be in time to avenge him. But he was not dead. The evidence that he was living was before my eyes; though, in the confusion of the moment, I had no sooner perceived it. Above the top of the post appeared the head held stiffly upright. This proved that the body still lived. Had it been otherwise, the head would have been drooping?