Frontier Shack reached the summit of the hillock, and peered over toward the stream.
“Well, this beats any thing I’ve seen since I’ve been in the West!” he ejaculated, a moment later. “That’s what I call pursuin’ music under difficulties. That young chap handles the crank well, but he’s almost played out, and his friend can’t dance much longer. Dash me if I didn’t get here in the nick of time; there’s goin’ to be some new tunes played now—new tunes, by Joshua!”
A moment later the scout rose and walked back to his untethered and impatient horse, and while he is examining the priming of his weapons, let us introduce the reader to the scene near the base of the hillock.
Seated about a fire lately kindled, more for light than heat, for the air was not uncomfortable, though sharp, were perhaps fifteen Indians—Pawnee Loups. Their arms lay at their sides, and proclaimed that they were not dreaming of the presence of an enemy. Fresh scalps dangled from the belts of the younger warriors, and a close observer would have detected blood on their hatchets and bows.
The scalps, the blood and their prisoners told, in silent but unmistakable language, the fate of an emigrant train.
The marauders’ captives were two youths, neither beyond seventeen, fair-skinned and handsome, and bore a striking resemblance to one another.
Their garments were of the latest cut in the States, but quite serviceable for the wilds of the West. They also proclaimed that they were not the sons of ordinary emigrants, who, unable to thrive among the populous lands of the East, were seeking homes, Boone-like, beyond the verge of civilization. Their faces betokened intelligence, and a bravery suited to the land and times they were in.
One stood near the fire, turning, with a strange desperation, the crank of a new hand-organ, such as the beggarly sons of Italy grind on the streets of our metropolis to-day. Long playing had almost exhausted him, his cheeks were flushed with fever, his breathing came by gasps, and great blue veins stood forth on his hands and forehead like whip-cords. He partially leaned against the organ for support, and his eyes were upturned to a great red star that seemed to pity him from the heavens. His companion was dancing for dear life near by, ready to sink to the ground, and die beneath the reeking tomahawks of the savages, who grinned and congratulated each other on the tortures they were inflicting on the American boys.
The youths were playing and dancing for dear life. Whenever one relinquished the accursed crank for a moment, to catch his breath, the leader of the band, a gaunt savage, would start forward with drawn tomahawk, and eyes glaring with the most brutal of murders. The other was not allowed to pause in his forced dance, and more than once the Indian above-mentioned had thrown new but transitory life into his tired limbs.
“They will have to tomahawk me ere long,” at last groaned the youth at the organ. “Nature is almost exhausted; my arm feels like a bar of lead, and my blood is on fire. Oh! heaven, why did I allow my adventurous spirit to lead me into the jaws of death? The sweetest of all homes had I, the best of fathers, sisters—and a mother—in heaven! Yes, mother! mother! I have journeyed here to meet thee. I can hold out no longer—there! God help me now!”