Under these circumstances it was indeed fortunate that the father was an experienced Indian-fighter. During the gold-fever of 1848, he had crossed the plains twice, and spent many years in the mines of California. Then during the Pike’s Peak excitement he spent a couple of years there, and during the late Indian troubles he had command of a regiment of cavalry upon active duty, their field of operations being in the immediate vicinity of the Black Hills. Thus most of his life had been spent upon the frontier, or among the Indians, whose language, haunts and habits he had learned to perfection; and there was but little of the country in which they now were but what he was intimately acquainted with, though five years had elapsed since he had last traversed it. Knowing that no time was to be lost he shaped their course, and at once set off in the direction taken by the savages, the darkness rendering it impossible to follow the trail.
Thus began the young men’s summer recreation on the plains!
CHAPTER II.
THE AERIAL DEMON OF THE MOUNTAIN.
Night had fallen, but through the darkness gleamed the cheerful light of a camp-fire that burned in a little wooded valley, near where it debouched from the Black Hills into the great plain, or Buffalo Range. Within its radius of light, two men were visible—one lying upon the ground asleep, the other seated before the fire, evidently keeping guard. The former was a short, heavy-set man, of some five and thirty years, with a broad, florid face, that told of humor and good-nature. A rifle was lying near, a hunting-knife was in his belt, and, though sound asleep, his hand grasped a short, stout club or shillalah which alone would have proclaimed his Hibernian extraction.
The Irishman’s companion was a type of a different nationality. He was a tall, powerful negro, with skin black as the ebon darkness around him. He possessed limbs and muscles of Herculean development, and a face firm, courageous and intellectual in its outlines. He held a double rifle, which flashed like a bar of silver in the firelight. Both were dressed in garbs of buck-skin, half-savage and half-civilized in fashion.
The negro sat with his rifle resting in the hollow of his arm, gazing into the glowing fire with a kind of vacant look.
As the minutes stole by, his eyes grew heavy with watching, and, presently, his head rolled languidly upon his shoulders in a gentle doze. Soon, however, he was aroused by a sound—the sound of approaching footsteps. He sprung to his feet, and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered into the gloom. At this moment five human figures emerged from the forest and halted within the radius of light. It was Colonel Wayland Sanford and his four young companions.
Colonel Sanford fixed his eyes upon those of the negro, and for a moment the two stood glaring at each other with a look of recognition, surprise, fear and revenge depicted upon their features. A profound silence ensued. The hand of the darky wandered mechanically to his knife, while the cold, gray eyes of Sanford flashed like burning coals, and his breast heaved and throbbed as though an internal volcano was surging within it.
The colonel was the first to break the silence.