CHAPTER VI.
CAPTURE OF JAKE PARSONS
The yell which had come to the ears of Jake Parsons, was sounded from the lips of Tom Rutter.
“Quick! Follow them! Don’t stand here idle. Your lives depend on it.”
Such were the exclamations which Rutter gave vent to; and the man by his side gradually dispensed with the sneer on his face, as he began to understand fully how matters were.
To turn around, to leave the apartment, to call upon the two men who were in the other room, to mount their steeds and descend into the pass, all this was the work of but a few moments.
When, at length, they burst out upon the plain, the first sight that met their eye was a band of some twenty Blackfeet. It was that part of Tom Rutter’s party which had not been at the fray of the great crossing. The sudden appearance of the four would have immediately attracted their attention, had it not been otherwise engaged.
Parsons had made somewhat of a mistake in his calculations. It had been his intention to keep close to the mountains, and make a trail running southward. If he could do this, and at the same time keep out of sight of Tom Rutter and the free trappers, he might make them believe that Adele was with him, and by drawing off their attention and forces in this direction, Waving Plume and the Major’s daughter might possibly have a chance to escape. The nature of the place was favourable to the plan, and, had it not been for the Indians, it might have been successful.
Unfortunately they were half a mile closer than he expected them to be, and as he rode out through the narrow, rocky, bush-sheltered passage, he fell, as it were, right into their hands. With a loud whoop, he clapped heels to his horse’s side, and endeavoured to dodge past them, but in vain. One of those nearest to him, and who was armed with a rifle, drew sight on the luckless trapper. Without waiting to ascertain whether the fleeing man was friend or foe, he pulled the trigger and fired.
Though the ball missed its intended mark, nevertheless it took fatal effect upon the horse which Jake bestrode, and, with one prodigious leap, its vital energies were expended. Though it fell so suddenly, its rider was not to be caught unprepared. Leaping nimbly aside, he avoided being crushed, and with steady aim covered the Indian who had fired the shot. He, knowing his almost certain fate, attempted to throw himself behind his horse, but his motion was not quick enough. A sharp crack, a whistling bullet, and the steed was avenged. To turn and rush toward the cover of the woods was his next move, and, with a score of red-skins, and the four whites to spur him on, he made the tallest kind of running.
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.
Loud and clear sounded the death-wail for fallen braves. Though successful in their foray upon the Crows, yet had the expedition, taken as a whole, resulted disastrously to the tribe. At least a dozen braves had fallen, and Talmkah, one of their bravest and boldest chiefs, dangerously, if not mortally wounded, in the abduction of Major Robison and his daughter. Thus, in the band of warriors that night gathered around the council-fire, there were deep mutterings, ominous frowns, sharp, blood-red speeches, and actions which told as loud as words, that the fate of the prisoners would be one both sudden and bloody.
The two slept on. Days of toil and nights of waking had so far exhausted them, that, even with the prospect of soon-approaching death, impending over them, they would calmly woo “tired nature’s sweet restorer,” and quietly and unbrokenly slumber, while bound, and prisoners in the Blackfoot town. They had slumbered perhaps an hour or so, when the entrance of three men into the hut aroused them. Two were Indians, but, by the light of the torch which one of them carried, to them, suddenly awakening, the third seemed to be a white man. Then, as the fumes of sleep rolled off, Charles Archer recognized one whom, of all others, he less wished to meet – Robison himself.
The Major, a weary, soul-depressed look upon his face, looked around, finally suffering his eye to rest for some seconds upon his fellow-prisoners before recognizing them. Then, as the Indians retired, leaving the three to themselves, he found tongue, addressing them with:
“So we once more meet. For once I am more pained than delighted at seeing a familiar face.”
“I can most heartily say the same,” was Archer’s response.
“Though the explanation of the fact of my being a prisoner here is most easy, I can hardly imagine how you came to fall into the hands of the Blackfeet again, once having been rescued, as I know, by our band of trappers. It can hardly be possible that they, along with you, are sharing the pains of captivity.”
“As far as my knowledge extends, they are in perfect safety. I find myself here as much through my own foolishness as through any other reason; yet, knowing, as I do, that I must have been imprudent, I can scarce give a sufficient account as to the means by which I was captured. Excitement, fatigue, grief, darkness and delay must have driven me partially out of my senses, so that I fell into the hands of the very men who were lurking along our trail.”
“It is strange,” said Waving Plume, “how misfortune seems to dog our every step. Not a move can we make, however fair it may, at the inception, appear, but we are plunged deeper into the mine of difficulties. You, the very embodiment of all caution, just at the critical time, losing presence of mind, seems to be sufficient cause to think that the fates are against us.”
And Parsons, too, had a word to say:
“By mighty, Major, things hes a villainy look. I’m expectin’ nothin’ ’cept the hull darned caboodle on us’ll jist be packed in here afore mornin’, an’ tomorrer they’ll make a bonfire out o’ some seven or eight most cussedly interestin’ subjects, of our weight an’ thickness. What the deuce are we goin’ to do?”
“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.
He, however, on his guard, threw up his left arm to ward off the attack, at the same time striking a powerful blow at the side of the animal. It proved a fatal one, for, with a sound, the mere repetition of his growl, he fell lifeless to the ground; while our hero, withdrawing his steel, turned to follow in the track of his still advancing friends. They, not perceiving that he had stopped, silently continued their journey, leaving their rear guard to stand with his reeking knife firmly clasped in his hand, perplexedly listening in the endeavour to guess the direction taken by his companions.
In five minutes Archer had extricated himself from the village, had traversed a distance of a hundred yards due west, and had then, with a Westerner’s instincts, turned and struck a course almost due south. To the south were friends: to the south help, freedom. But, if to the south lay safety, so, to the south lay danger. Outlying pickets returning bands of warriors, a tangled path – these, and darkness were before him. But death howled behind him, and forward, forward through the night, he pressed.
Hastening on, his teeth firm set, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness, his hand tightly clenching his hunting-knife, there came suddenly to his ears the sound of a rapidly approaching horseman. Not far distant was he, either, and though the danger of halting was almost commensurate with that of proceeding, still he thought it best to halt, and, if possible, escape the notice of the coming foe. For not one moment could he suppose that any but a foe might ride so recklessly in such close proximity to the Indian town.
Halting, then, he threw himself at full length upon the ground, hoping that good fortune and the darkness of the night might once again befriend him. At three yards distance he was invisible; it would be a keen-scented man, indeed, who might detect his presence.
The steed came nearer, the soft ground and tangled prairie grass, deadening the sounds of his approach.
Onward, and still onward the red-man swept.
Suddenly, from the very ground at his feet, arose a form, shadowy and spectral, reaching one arm toward the head of his steed, the other brandished back. Startled, his self-possession most sternly attacked, almost stunned by this ghostly apparition, his hand bore hard on the leathern thong of his bridle, and a twitch of the wrist, tried to turn the horse to one side. But, though the nerves of the rider were steel, not so with the animal he bestrode; and, though coming to a halt so suddenly as to be thrown back upon its haunches, farther than that he refused to do. So, as the hand of the warrior felt for the ready tomahawk, the phantom form gave a bound forward, the next moment, with a sweeping, hissing sound, the knife of Archer went hilt-home to the heart of the red-man.
Possessed, then, of steed and fire-arm, with foes behind and friends before, careless – reckless – of pursuers and pickets, straightforward through the gloom, dashed the escaped prisoner.
Somewhat tired was the steed, but the clouds rifted, the wailing winds sighed more softly, the moon again beamed out bright; and as hours sped on, and were thrown backward by the flying hoofs, the bright auroras tinged the eastern clouds, and John Howell, from his look-out by the foot of a thickly wooded hill, keeping sharp guard while his companions slept, caught glimpse of a strange figure, mounted on a foam flecked and weary steed, bearing down full and hard upon him. So, too, with Antonio, the half-breed, who, with the Crows following in his footsteps, had pushed on, and had, on the previous day, overtaken the trappers. He and Howell, together watching, descried the unknown figure, and, at first were somewhat ruffled in their minds, but at length, with a joyous clap of the hand upon his thigh, Howell shouted:
“Waving Plume, by mighty!”