There was reason in what ’Lije said. His words were consolatory to O’Neil; and, for a time, he rode on with a countenance more cheerful.
It soon became clouded again, as he returned to reflect on the character of the Indians who were supposed to have “struck” the caravan; more especially their chief, whose fame as a hater of white men was almost equalled by his reputation as a lover of white women. There was more than one story current among the trappers, in which the Yellow Chief had figured as a gallant among white-skinned girlish captives, who had fallen into his hands on their passage across the prairie.
With the remembrance of these tales coming freshly before his mind, O’Neil groaned again.
What if Clara Blackadder—in his memory still an angel—what if she should, at that moment, be struggling in the arms of a paint-bedaubed savage? Beauty in the embrace of a fiend! The reflection was fearful—odious, and, as it shadowed the young hunter’s heart, he drove the spurs deep into the flanks of his horse, and cried to his comrade, “Come on, ’Lije! come on!”
But the time had arrived when something besides haste was required of them. They were nearing the spot where the pillagers of the caravan were supposed to have made camp; and the trappers were too well acquainted with the wiles of prairie life to approach either men or animals in an open manner. They knew that no Indians, even in their hours of carousal, would leave their camp unguarded. A whole tribe never gets drunk together. Enough of them always stay sober to act as sentinels and videttes.
Safe as the Cheyenne Chief and his fellow-plunderers might deem themselves—far away from any foe likely to molest them—they would, for all this, be sure to keep pickets around their camping-place, or scouts in its vicinity.
There was a bright daylight, for it was yet early in the afternoon. To attempt approaching the bivouac of the savages across the open plain, or even close-skirting the mountains, could only lead to a failure of their enterprise. They would be sure of being seen, and, before they could get within striking distance, the Indians, if not disposed to fight, would be off, carrying along with them both their booty and their captives. Mounted on fresher horses than those ridden by the trappers, now panting and sweating after a long, continuous gallop, they could easily accomplish this.
There seemed but one way of approaching the Indian camp—by stealth; and this could only be done by waiting for the night and its darkness.
As this plan appeared to be the best, most of the trappers counselled following it. They could think of no other.
The thought of such long delay was agony to O’Neil. Was there no alternative?