“We must hope for the best, knowing that while there is life there is hope. I have very little fears, for the present, for Hawkins and the rest of the boys, though I deeply regret that circumstances should have occurred to draw them toward so much danger. They are well-chosen men, with years of experience, and, though game to the back bone, there will be a method about their perseverance which will, as far as possible, preserve them from needless exposure to danger.”
CHAPTER VIII.
WAVING PLUME AT LIBERTY.
The night wore on. The sighing winds crept slowly around the wigwam, or sorrowfully wailed up the streets of the Blackfoot village. The dim, ghostly circle around the moon deepened into blackness; dim clouds grew in size, looming forebodingly, and a chill, damp feeling filled the air. Without the wigwam, which served as a prison for Major Robison and his friends, three dusky warrior sentinels stalked, their arms well secured under the folds of their close wrapped blankets. Silence came, like cotton-down, upon the surrounding village, and all was quiet.
From within came no sound indicative of aught of life; but by the light of the low-burned, smouldering brand, three persons held a whispered conversation. It was Waving Plume who first spoke out, and asked his companions to make, at least, one more desperate attempt to escape. It was Waving Plume who first spoke of what all three had before been thinking.
“Time hurries on, Major, and the hour of midnight must be well past. To remain here is certain death, and that, too, without having the consolation of knowing that thereby we are in the least benefitting your daughter. Darkness, without, appears to be thick, and guards slacking in their vigilance—what say you, then, to a desperate try for life and liberty?”
“No need to ask me that question, Archer. I have that to nerve me for the struggle which may come; and much of all one loves, hangs trembling in the balance. Here are we, with unbound hands, our lives, and the lives of our friends at stake—the chance of success, to one of us, at least, tolerable—why then should we delay. Let us hasten to leave.”
The step of the sentinels without had ceased. A low murmur of conversation came in from the corner opposite to the door. The men without had seen Jake Parsons and Archer most thoroughly bound, and they had not the slightest suspicion but what Major Robison was in the same predicament. A thought of bad faith from Tom Rutter never crossed their minds. With such subjects as might beguile their savage minds, they kept up their conversation, leaving the tight binding withes which had entwined the wrists of their captives, and the chance of fortune to take care of the prisoners. Thus, in silence, and with lips somewhat quivering, and hearts almost silenced in their beating, the three stole out, all unarmed, save the heavy hunting-knife which Waving Plume carried in his bosom.
Robison and Parsons crept along side by side; but Charles Archer followed some half dozen paces in the rear, covering the retreat, and occupying, as he thought, the post of danger.
A faint sound of pattering feet, following close behind, saluted the ear of Waving Plume, so that, with knife drawn, and in a crouching position, he awaited the nearer approach of the object. It proved to be something which is but rarely met with—a really courageous Indian dog. With only a single bark, with only a low, deep growl, he sprang straight at the neck of Archer.