A perfect storm of bullets and arrows was launched at him, but still was he unharmed. A number of the Blackfeet dismounted, and closed in upon him; but the hardy white disdained to yield.
Drawing his heavy rifle over his shoulder, he anticipated their attack by leaping upon them. For a few moments there was a lively time among the party, but numbers and resolution were too much for resolution alone, and Jake was finally borne to the ground. Even then he did not, at once, give in, but made most frantic efforts to draw his knife. At length, after a most desperate fight, he was bound, though not without the assistance of Big Dick and Tom Rutter.
“Thar, darn yer ornary picturs, you’ve got me; but ye had a good time adoin’ it. See what yer’ll make of me, ye low-lived, red-skinned devils!”
To this exclamation of Parsons, which showed that his mind was not under control, if his body was, no immediate attention was paid, Tom Rutter, all panting with his exertions, exclaiming:
“Whar is the gal—ye?”
CHAPTER VII.
PARSONS AND ARCHER IN THE BLACKFOOT VILLAGE.
It was evening. In the centre of the Blackfoot village were two men well known to the reader—Parsons and his friend, Charles Archer. Without the lodge, could be heard the cat-like pace of a sentinel. At a few rods distance a long wigwam, the council-chamber of the Charred Stick section of the tribe, was located, and now and then a wild shriek, pealed forth by some brave, would reach the ears of the prisoners. Within, nothing was to be heard save the measured breathing of the two; both were sleeping.
The face of Waving Plume was very pale. From under a tight bandage upon his forehead, drops of blood, now clotted, had escaped; the hair on the front part of his head was matted together, and the appearance of the man gave evidence that he had not become a captive without a determined fight.