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Title: The Rival Trappers
or, Old Pegs, The Mountaineer
Author: Lewis W. Carson
Release Date: January 15, 2022 [eBook #67169]
Language: English
Produced by: David Edwards, Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Northern
Illinois University Digital Library)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVAL TRAPPERS ***
THE RIVAL TRAPPERS;
OR,
OLD PEGS, THE MOUNTAINEER.
BY LEWIS W. CARSON.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS
I Old Pegs 9
II Old Pegs’ Treasure 15
III Dave Farrell. Bruin Scouting 23
IV Whirlwind 31
V A Coward’s Deed 38
VI A Great Surprise 46
VII Catching a Tartar 53
VIII A Border Battle 60
IX Unbidden Guests 67
X On the Trail. A Treacherous Act 72
XI The Heroine a Captive 82
XII Dropping the Mask 88
XIII A Dreadful Ordeal—Finis 94
THE RIVAL TRAPPERS;
OR,
OLD PEGS, THE MOUNTAINEER.
CHAPTER I.
OLD PEGS.
Hush! Is that a footstep coming up the canon? It came nearer and nearer,
and a man of strange appearance suddenly stepped into view, rounding a
bend in the canon. At the first glance it seemed that he was a dwarf in
stature, but as he advanced, it was plainly to be seen that this was a
mistake, for those broad shoulders and herculean arms never belonged to
a dwarf. In hight he would scarcely have reached five feet, but his
girth of shoulder and hip was something wonderful. In short, he had the
body of a giant, set upon a pair of legs so crooked and misshapen that
it seemed as if he had borrowed those limbs from some one else.
He came on with a peculiar, sidelong, hitching gait, swinging out his
left leg and throwing forward the shoulder upon that side in an
irresistibly ludicrous way, but getting over the ground at a very fair
pace.
His dress was that of the mountainman, of greasy buck-skin, yet showing
the careful hand of woman in the manner in which it was made. He wore
fringed leggins, moccasins of ponderous size, and a high bear-skin cap,
which added considerably to his ludicrous “make-up.” His weapons were a
carefully-polished rifle, a pair of splendid revolvers, a knife and a
hatchet.
His face was broad, ruddy and good-natured, fringed by a russet-brown
hair and beard, slightly sprinkled with gray. A single look at the high
forehead, merry brown eyes and smiling mouth, about which a whimsical
look would linger in spite of himself, showed that he was a merry,
reckless soul, but a man of undaunted courage.
“Hyar we come and hyar we go, pegging along the canon,” he half-sung.
“Thar was some mistake in my make-up, I reckon, or I’d be a different
man. But who keers, ez long ez I am happy ez a buck Digger in
grasshopper time? Oh, Lordy, yes.”
He stopped and cast a penetrating glance about him, at the same time
dropping one leg a little, showing that it was shorter than the other by
some two inches. He seemed to listen, and his leonine head was thrown to
one side in an attitude of profound attention. The next moment, by a
movement of wonderful rapidity, he threw himself out of sight into one
of the crevices with which the ravine abounded, and dropping to the
earth behind a bowlder, awaited the event.
To the casual observer there had been no break in the usual sounds in
mountain and forest, but a moment more showed that the wanderer was not
at fault, for the sound of hoofs could be plainly heard, coming up from
the east. Nearer and nearer they came, and the rapidity of the
hoof-beats showed that the horseman, whoever he might be, was coming at
the top of his speed; and directly the head of a horse appeared, and a
single rider came thundering down the pass, half-lying on the animal’s
back, and urging him on with knife and spur, while behind him sounded
other hoof-beats, showing that he was pursued.
It was a white man, and that was enough for the old hunter, who started
out from his place of concealment and checked the flying steed.
“Hi, thar, stranger—what’s up?”
The rider reined in his furious horse and grasped a weapon, but, seeing
that it was a white man who barred the way, dropped his hand and
answered, hurriedly:
“Indians!”
“After you?”
“Looks like it, old man.”
“Get down quick, then—take yer weepens, and send the hoss on. You’ve got
ter lose him, or yer sculp.”
The man did not hesitate, but flung himself from the saddle and scored
his knife-point sharply across the flank of the horse, which fled on
lightly, being freed from its rider, and without a word the hunter led
the way into the crevice which he had just left.
The horse had just made the last turn in the canon when about twenty of
those Arabs of the plains, the Blackfeet, suddenly came in view, riding
with loosened reins, their mustangs scrambling like cats along the bed
of the canon, and the riders, bending forward like huntsmen in the
chase, urging them on by word and blow. They passed like a whirlwind,
and were gone; then the hunter bounded to his feet.
“Thar they go, the painted riptiles, like bed-bugs armed fur war! Come
on, stranger; the quicker we git up these yer rocks the better.”
“I am a poor footpad,” said the stranger, with a light laugh; “but lead
the way, old True Blue, and I’ll follow. That was a close shave, I tell
you.”
“Clust enuff fur comfert,” replied the hunter. “This a-way.”
He began to climb the rugged side of the ravine with the agility of a
cat, swinging his huge body from ledge to ledge by the power of his
gigantic arms, and then turning to assist his companion, who, although
younger, was by no means so agile.
Again and again, but for the timely aid of those muscular arms, the
younger man would have fallen headlong into the gulf below, but at last
they reached the top of the ledge, fifty feet above the canon bottom.
“Down—fur yer life—down!” hissed the hunter, as they reached the top of
the ledge.
Both men fell prostrate, and not a moment too soon, for the Indians were
coming back at a flying gallop, leading among them the horse which had
so lately been abandoned by the rescued man. They came to a halt
directly beneath the ledge, sitting erect and grim upon their panting
mustangs, without uttering a word.
No body of men on earth can present a more warlike appearance than the
Blackfeet—a nation brave even to desperation. Their bronzed bodies,
shimmering ornaments and flaunting feathers; their long lances
glittering in the sun; the ease and grace with which they sat their
horses, as if horse and man were one piece, combined to make the
appearance of this body at once imposing and threatening.
The chief was a man of gigantic size, armed with lance, hatchet, knife
and a sort of mace—which he carried slung at the pommel of the high
Mexican saddle, with which he rode. He spoke, and at the sound of his
sonorous voice the hunter started, for he knew the voice well. It was
that of Whirlwind, a chief who had made himself a terror throughout that
region, and the deadly enemy of white men, under all circumstances.
“Let the braves scatter and search the canon,” cried Whirlwind. “The
white dog has leaped from his saddle and is hidden among the rocks like
a rabbit. We must have his scalp, for he has killed Flying Cloud the son
of Natal—Nemissa. Can we return to the Blackfoot lodges with empty
hands?”
The majority of the warriors, leaving their horses in charge of the
rest, sprung down and began the search, but the feet of their flying
steeds had obliterated all signs of a trail, had there been one, and the
place where the white men had ascended was a rock which would not leave
the mark of a foot. The old hunter was lying on the earth, literally
convulsed with laughter at the manner in which he had outwitted
Whirlwind, an enemy to the death, when, turning his eyes upon the man he
had saved, he saw him in the act of thrusting forward the rifle with the
intention of killing the chief. Rolling over quickly the hunter grasped
the rifle, and after a struggle succeeded in tearing the weapon from the
young man’s grasp. In doing so, however, a small piece of rock was
detached and fell over the cliff upon the head of an Indian below, who
was knocked senseless by the blow. The chief started and cast a quick
glance upward, but at this moment the hunter while holding his companion
down, managed to give an exact counterfeit of the bleat of a Bighorn. So
perfect was the imitation that the chief at once concluded that the
Bighorn in moving about had knocked down the stone upon the head of the
stricken warrior, and seeing that his men were puzzled he called them in
and they moved up the pass together searching every crevice for the man
who had escaped them. When the sound of hoofs came faintly back from the
upper part of the ravine, the hunter released his companion and stood up
while the other bounded to his feet, flushed and excited.
“It is a good thing for you that you have just saved my life, old man,
or we should quarrel. What did you mean by stopping me when I was going
to shoot that old thief, Whirlwind?”
“Look yer, young ’un,” demanded the hunter, “d’ye know who I am?”
“No.”
“Mebbe you don’t want to?”
“Of course I wish to know the name of the man who has just saved my
life, but let me warn you never to attempt again what you did just now.”
“You’d mount me ez a spider mounts a fly, I ’spose?” said the hunter,
coolly. “My young fr’end, never let yer angry passhins git the best ov
you, and by all means never hop on a man untel you ar’ tollable sartin
you kin lick him. I don’t want to put you in mind ov the fac’ thet I hev
just saved yer life—I’d do that ag’in, any way—but, what was you going
ter do ef you hed killed Whirlwind?”
“There would have been one less scoundrel on the face of the earth.”
“Sartin; I agree; but, look yer, my lad; kin we two lick nineteen
Blackfeet?”
“I don’t suppose we could.”
“No, sirree! I’ve fou’t Injuns ever sence I was knee high ter a
grasshopper, and I want ter hev it sot down thet an Injun in his own
kentry and well fixed, is an or’nary and orkard cuss to manige; he is,
by thunder! I’ve hern tell ov one man sending ten or twelve to grass,
but he can’t do it every day, bet yer life.”
“But they could not get at us here—”
“I ’spose not. An Injun can’t climb ez well ez the next man, I ’spose.
Now did ye ever hear tell ov Old Pegs?”
The young man started and looked at him keenly.
“Old Pegs the guide—Old Pegs the hunter, Old Pegs the Indian terror? I
should think so.”
“Them’s my handles, stranger; I’m Old Pegs.”
“I beg your pardon for saying what I did then, for I have no desire to
quarrel with a man of your reputation. Perhaps it is for the best that
Whirlwind should escape at this time, but my hour will come, and when it
does—let him beware of me.”
“All hunky; rub him out the fust chaince you git. Now what’s _your_
handle, young man?”
“People who know me well, call me Rafe Norris.”
“I don’t keer what people _call_ you. Is Rafe Norris yer handle?”
“Yes.”
“What’s yer biz?”
“I can’t tell you that just now, my good friend. I—”
He did not finish the sentence, for Old Pegs caught him by the shoulders
and flung him heavily to the ground, falling beside him from the impetus
of his own exertions. The hand of the old guide was outstretched, and
catching up a heavy stone he flung it with deadly aim at the feathered
head of an Indian which at this moment rose above the ledge and who was
poising a lance for a throw. Straight between the eyes the heavy stone
struck, and, spreading his arms abroad, the Indian plunged head-foremost
into the depths below, where his skull was shattered out of the
semblance of humanity upon the rocks. So quickly was it done that Rafe
Norris had no idea why he had been so rudely assailed, and seizing upon
Old Pegs, began to pommel him about the head and shoulders.
“See yer, my boy,” said Old Pegs, “ef you hit me _and I find it out_,
I’ll be darned ef I don’t send fer ye once, jest fer fun—now you hear
me. Confound each individual wolverine in these tempestuous wilds ef I
knows what’s the matter with you.”
“What did you pitch into me for?” hissed Rafe, in an angry tone.
“Come hyar, you fool, ef I must say it,” replied Old Pegs. “Creep to the
edge of the cliff and look over.”
Considerably awed by the manner of the hunter, Rafe crawled to the edge
of the cliff, and looking down cautiously saw the dead form of the
savage below, while the rattle of hoofs told that some of the Indian’s
comrades were coming back to look for him. The unfortunate savage,
suspecting something wrong and desirous of distinguishing himself, had
come back to search again for Rafe Norris, and hearing voices, had
scaled the cliff unheard just in time to meet his fate.
“Come along,” whispered Old Pegs. “Show a leg and foller me.”
CHAPTER II.
OLD PEGS’ TREASURE.
The country through which Old Pegs led his new friend was one of the
most difficult and dangerous in the portion of the foothills in which
they were placed. No one, save a man who loved solitude, and would have
chosen it from all others as a home, would have thought of spending so
many years of his life in this lonely place. They passed through defile
after defile, clambered over ridges and forded mountain streams in which
the trout were so abundant that their feet touched them as they passed.
On the march, Old Pegs had a chance to observe his companion closely,
and he did so without allowing him to think that he was watched. Rafe
might have been thirty years of age, of an erect, stately figure, with
very black hair and eyes. His hair was suffered to grow long, and curled
slightly at the ends; he wore a heavy mustache—the point dropping nearly
to his collar as he stood erect—and a long imperial. His eyes were of
that vivid black so seldom seen, and looked wicked and bold. Although in
mountain garb, there was a sort of dandyism even in this dress which did
not strike Old Pegs favorably.
“I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing in showing you this
road,” said the hunter. “I’m a plain man and in a humble station, and
I’ve got a treasure to guard.”
“A treasure?”
“You bet!”
“Have you found a gold-mine?”
“No; gold ain’t no use ter me, or I could find it soon enough.”
“It can not be diamonds?”
“Better’n diamonds, young ’un; better’n gold; better’n beaver, even.”
“What can you be talking of?” said Rafe, impatiently.
“Never you mind about that. I know what I’m talking about, and when I
get home I’ll show you my treasure.”
At a turn in the path they were traversing they came suddenly upon a
huge bear, which reared upon its haunches and sat, in a silly way,
looking at them, with its tongue hanging out. Rafe Norris, who had no
love for close companionship with a grizzly, dropped his rifle into the
hollow of his hand, and was about to fire, when Old Pegs struck up the
weapon.
“Don’t shoot that b’ar, confound you!” he cried. “He’s mine.”
“A pet bear! Is that your treasure, then?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Old Pegs. “Kinder inquisitive, ain’t you?”
“You have aroused my curiosity, I must confess,” replied Rafe.
“Bruin! Bruin!” cried a clear, sweet voice. “Come here, sir!”
Down dropped the bear upon all fours, and waddled away in the direction
of the voice, while Rafe stopped and looked at Old Pegs in amazement.
“_That_ is your treasure, eh?” he demanded. “I thought you were too old
a man to care for a woman.”
“I’m a nice figger fur a lady’s man, ain’t I?” replied the hunter,
scornfully. “I orter hit you, but I guess I won’t. Here we ar’.”
The path led out of the narrow ravine through a thicket, and they
entered a small, sheltered valley, containing hardly an acre of
bottom-land, a sort of oasis scooped out by the hand of nature from the
bosom of the eternal hills. There was no sign of human habitation
anywhere, but their ears were saluted by a burst of song and the tinkle
of a guitar. The voice of the singer was so wonderfully pure, rich and
sweet that Rafe stopped in utter amazement and looked at Old Pegs.
“What does this mean, old man?” he cried; “that is not the voice of an
Indian woman.”
“Ska’cely; oh, no—I reckon not. And see yer, feller—thet gal is under my
pertection, and the man thet lays a finger on her, or insults her by
look or word, may git out the papers fur his funeral—and I’ll see thet
they hev a _corpse_. D’ye understand?”
“Why should I try to harm her?” said Rafe. “Hush! let us hear her song.”
It was a song of chivalry—a song of the old days—that seemed to speak
the clash of spears and the rattle of steel armor. The voice rung out
full and clear, not a note was slurred or hurried, and the two stood
spell-bound until she had finished, when Old Pegs called out: “Myrtle!”
The sound of the guitar was hushed; there came the rush of flying feet,
and the singer appeared and flung her arms about the neck of the old man
and kissed him.
“I am glad you have come, father, for I was getting lonely. You—”
She paused suddenly, for her eyes just then rested upon the face of Rafe
Norris, who was gazing at her with a look of undisguised admiration.
What did he see? A fair young creature in the flush of early womanhood,
with a face and form which might have driven a painter mad. She was
slightly framed, but every line was in perfect symmetry, and her face
was perfection itself. A touch of peach-bloom in either cheek, ripe-red
lips and lustrous brown eyes; short, ambrosial locks, clinging about a
neck which rivaled in whiteness the snows of the mountain, and a look of
perfect innocence beautifying all.
Why did Rafe Norris gaze at her as if he had seen a vision from the
grave?
“Don’t be skeered, little ’un,” said Old Pegs. “This yer is Rafe Norris,
a gentleman thet run from some cussid Blackfeet and got away. I brung
him here fur the night, and expect you to treat him well. This is my
darter, Rafe—I kain’t _mister_ any one, ye know—and she’s the best and
pootiest gal in the kentry.”
Rafe Norris bowed low, and uttered a well-framed compliment, which the
girl received coldly.
“It is somewhat strange, Mr. Norris, that you should be alone here,” she
said.
“I was separated from my party,” he answered, blandly, “and the Indians
set upon me before I was aware. I would accept the danger gladly for the
honor of this introduction.”
“Draw it kinder mild, Rafe—kinder mild,” said Old Pegs. “We raally can’t
stand too many nice speeches, out hyar.”
“That speech came from my heart,” replied Rafe. “I hope that the lady
will not consider it an unmeaning compliment.”
“That’ll do,” said Old Pegs, dryly. “Now, Myrtle, gal, will you git us
suthing to eat? Ez fur me, I’m pesky hungry. I could eat a hull antelope
to my own cheek this hyar blessid minnit. What hav you got fur us?”
“I caught some trout awhile ago, and have them ready to broil,” replied
Myrtle.
“I cannot consent to allow Miss Myrtle to perform such menial service
for me,” said Rafe. “Let me do the cooking, for which such hands were
never intended.”
Myrtle broke into a merry laugh. “You betray yourself, Mr. Norris,” she
said. “You are a gentleman born and bred, for none of our own
mountaineers would object to my cooking a meal for them.”
He looked a little vexed, and she glided away, and Old Pegs sat down on
a great rock and signed to his companion to do the same.
“Let me go and assist Miss Myrtle,” said Norris. “It really pains me to
suffer her to do such work.”
“Sit down, stranger,” said Old Pegs, shortly. “I won’t hev any one, I
don’t keer who he is, try ter make the gal discontented with her life
hyar. She’s the darter of a mount’in man, and ef she ever marries—which
I hope she won’t—she’ll be the wife of a mount’in man; thet’s ez good ez
swore to.”
“I hope you do not doubt me, Mr.—”
“Old Pegs! Thet’s my name—Old Pegs. I don’t want no other handle, and I
won’t hev it. Ef I knowed you well I wouldn’t keer so much, but yer a
stranger, and so we won’t hev any sort of familiarity until I does know
you.”
“You are particular, sir,” replied Norris, knitting his brows. “It is
sad that I did not bring my pedigree with me when I came here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, stranger,” replied Old Pegs, “or we may part
company afore you know it. I won’t have no foolishness about hyar ef I
know it; no discount on thet ar’.”
“I beg your pardon again, but really you are very hard on me. I claim to
be a gentleman, and hope I am so. Perhaps that would make me lose your
good esteem.”
“Oh no; I’ve knowed lots of _gentlemen_ thet was bully boys, and many’s
the high old time I’ve had with ’em, right about hyar. But, they _was_
gentlemen, and I _knowed_ it. Now I don’t know any thing about you.”
“I hope you will know me better sometime,” replied Rafe, in such a
peculiar tone that Old Pegs looked up at him quickly, as if to detect
the lurking menace in his face. But that face expressed nothing except
polite desire to make friends, and the old hunter dropped his eyes again
and whistled. A lumbering tread was heard; the pet bear appeared and
came rolling up at that peculiar gait so common to his race, and placing
his head upon the ground, turned a sort of summerset, erected himself
upon his hind feet, and came forward, extending his paw, which Old Pegs
shook heartily.
“Glad ter see you, Bruin, my boy,” he said. “Hev ye taken good keer of
yer young mistress while I’ve been gone?”
The bear nodded in a singularly grotesque manner, and Rafe could not
repress a laugh.
“You have trained that fellow well, old man,” he said. “I suppose he
will obey you in any thing now?”
“Ef you was to lay a finger on me and he thought you was in ’arnest, it
would take a hull brigade to gether yer fragments from the a’jacent
kountry round abowt.”
“I’ll be ‘keerful’ how I handle you then,” said Rafe. “Did I understand
you to say that Miss Myrtle is really _your_ daughter?”
“Ain’t no ways anxious ter know, be you, stranger?” said Old Pegs,
frowning. “Git up hyur, Bruin—stand on yer he’d!”
The grizzly at once threw his quarters into the air, and in that
attitude walked up to his master, and planting his head upon the earth,
remained in that position until ordered to come down, which he did at
once and rolled himself rapidly over and over until he was quite out
sight behind the bushes.
“You dislike to talk about your daughter, I see,” said Rafe,
persistently.
“No I don’t—no sech thing,” replied Old Pegs, belligerently. “Don’t tell
me no sech foolishness. She’s a good gal, but she ain’t fur gentlemen to
consort with, mind you. And look yer; ef you kain’t manige ter git along
’thout making yourself too familiar, then all I kin say is, we’d better
part kump’ny now.”
What Rafe might have said in reply it is impossible to say, but at this
moment Myrtle appeared and called to them. Old Pegs arose in his slow
and easy manner, and led the way through a screen of thick bushes until
they came upon a cabin so artistically concealed that a person might
have passed it a hundred times without suspecting its presence. It was
built of small logs dovetailed at the corners in frontier fashion, and
chinked with a sort of blue clay. It had two small windows, each
containing four panes of glass—for that article was difficult to
transport to the mountain region. The door was heavy and swung upon iron
hinges, manufactured from strap iron, in a rude way. The interior of the
little place was as neat as hands could make it, and the little table
and stools actually shone with scrubbing. A guitar stood in a little
curtained recess, and, to the utter surprise of Rafe Norris, a rude
bookcase in one corner contained a supply of books which had evidently
been much used. The table was set in the middle of the room, the plain
crockery arranged to the best advantage. They had venison steaks, fresh
broiled trout, pone bread and fragrant coffee. Norris at the invitation
of Old Pegs drew up his stool and was helped liberally. Myrtle poured
the coffee, and all enjoyed a hearty meal.
“Thar,” said Old Pegs, “I dunno ez I keer fur any more. What a thing it
is to hev a gal like Myrtle ter make the little cabin bright! She killed
that deer and caught them trout herself, and thet’s what I call being
ginerally useful. What do you say?”
“I can appreciate the home qualities of your daughter,” said Rafe, “but
from the appearance of that book-case and the guitar I should say that
she has other good qualities.”
“And so she hez, Rafe—so she hez. She kin sing like a bird—kin
Myrtle—and when the old man comes home tired from the hunt, mebbe she
don’t make his life pleasant by singing and reading. She’s a master
reader—is Myrtle.”
“I should think that it would be hard to find a teacher in this section,
but, from the quality of the books which I see she must be considerably
advanced.”
“Oh she’s got a teacher,” replied Old Pegs with a sly look at Myrtle,
whose cheek flushed like the rose. “A mighty good teacher, I mout say.”
“I was about to offer my poor services in that capacity,” said Rafe,
“and I am sorry to hear that I am in some degree forestalled.”
“Yer cut out intirely,” replied Old Pegs. “The gal won’t take to no
other teacher ez she does to this one.”
“Where is this wonderful teacher now, if I may ask?” said Rafe with a
look of annoyance.
“Gone down ter the fort, I reckon. It’s about time fur a lesson, too,
and I kin see thet the gal is getting anxious.”
“Father!” cried Myrtle.
“Thet is gospel truth, gal,” replied Old Pegs with a grin. “I kin see it
in yer eye, whenever I look at you.”
Rafe was puzzled to understand the manner in which Myrtle received the
bantering speech of her father. She seemed ill at ease, and her eyes
wandered to the door from time to time as if in expectation. Just then
the bear, which had been lying upon the threshold, raised his muzzle and
snuffed the air in a peculiar manner, and then rising heavily, started
away on an awkward shambling trot in the direction of the entrance to
the valley.
“The critter smells suthing,” said Old Pegs, drawing his rifle nearer,
“and I’ll take a walk outside and see what’s up.”
He started out quickly, leaving Rafe Norris with Myrtle. He at once
began to improve the opportunity.
“It seems strange to me that a lady to all appearance so refined as you
are should pass her life in the midst of this desolation.”
“I am not ‘a lady’ and I am far from refined, Mr. Norris. Is it
lady-like to go out and shoot a deer, bring home steaks and saddle, and
catch and cook a mess of trout? I am very much afraid that you are
mistaken in me, and think me one of those white-handed misses who mince
along the streets of Leavenworth and St. Joseph; but I am not.”
“You belie yourself in this, Miss Myrtle. While you stay here of course
you must conform to the usages of the society in which you live. But you
are fitted to adorn—”
She lifted her finger in a playful manner.
“No nice speeches, if you please, Mr. Norris, for I am not used to them,
and should not know how to appreciate them in the least. I am afraid
your intercourse with the fine ladies who dwell in cities, has unfitted
you for the realities of life as we find them in the mountains.”
“I pray not, for I hope to win your good opinion some day, and to be
able to prove to you that such ladies are not to my taste. I admire your
spirit—”
“I think we had better change the conversation as I am not egotistical
enough to wish to talk of myself, and nothing else. Perhaps you play the
guitar.”
“A little,” he replied, “but I am not going to expose myself by trying
to play now. I heard your music as I came up and was literally
enthralled by it.”
She brought the guitar, and began to clear away the table while he
touched the keys and strings lightly, bringing the instrument into tune,
while he kept his eyes upon her steadily. There was an elasticity and
grace in every movement which spoke of perfect health, and he was
obliged to confess that he had never seen her equal. The man was
susceptible to female grace and beauty, and was touched now as he never
been before, and knew it. Once or twice she met his eyes and was
startled by the bold look of admiration in them. He continued to drum
upon the strings, merely striking chords and watching her intently. He
seemed about to speak, but at this moment the sound of voices could be
heard and Old Pegs, accompanied by a young man in a tasteful hunting
garb, entered the room. Myrtle sprung forward with a glad cry and gave
him both hands while giving him a welcome.
“Is that her teacher, I wonder?” muttered Rafe, below his breath. “We
shall see. I will not be foiled when the prize for which I play is
almost in my grasp.”
CHAPTER III.
DAVE FARRELL. BRUIN SCOUTING.
The young man who had entered was the _beau ideal_ of a Western scout,
and Rafe was obliged to confess that he would have made a hard customer
to meet in the midst of a border struggle. About five feet and ten
inches in hight, straight as a cedar, with curling brown hair, and eyes
of the same color, a brown but well-cut face, firm lips and white teeth;
dressed as a leader of scouts in the neat fringed hunting-shirt belted
at the waist, high horseman’s boots and sombrero; and armed with the
rifle, two first-class revolvers and a heavy knife. He carried a bundle
in one hand which he dropped to meet the extended hands of Myrtle, and
stood there with a smile upon his handsome face.
“Rafe Norris,” said Old Pegs, “this hyar chap is Dave Farrell, a real
out and outer, at present captain of a trapping brigade of the
North-west Company. Ef you meet any one thet asks you, be keerful to
tell ’em thet Old Pegs sez he’s a roarer! You kin realize money on that,
every time.”
Dave Farrell turned to acknowledge the introduction with a peculiar look
upon his face.
“It seems to me, although I may be wrong—that I have seen you before.”
“I don’t remember, Captain Farrell,” replied Rafe, coolly. “Still, I’ve
been in many places, and we might have met without recollecting it.”
“I think it was in Fort Garry, in the year ’53.”
“Scarcely; I have not been in that country for nearly four years.”
“We are all liable to mistakes,” said Dave; “but of course you have some
kind of business up this way?”
“Of course.”
“Do you object to mentioning _what_ business?”
“I am not in a position to give you any information upon the subject
just now as I do not recognize your authority. I have been chased by
Indians and escaped by means of your friend here, who has offered me a
shelter and has not insulted me by asking impertinent questions.”
“Impertinent!” said Dave, slowly, turning his eyes full upon the face of
the speaker. “I said that I would like to know your business, having
stated mine.”
“And I tell you that I am not in a condition to gratify your curiosity
in the least.”
“Let’s have no quarreling hyar, boys,” said Old Pegs. “Mr. Norris goes
away to-morrer to find his party, and thet’s the end of it. Let’s treat
him like a gentleman while he stays.”
“I have no more to say at present,” said Dave. “If I had thought my
simple question would be regarded as an insult I should not have asked
it.”
“You are excused,” said Rafe, coolly, “but I don’t allow any man to
interfere with my affairs.”
Dave said no more, but dropping upon one knee began to undo the bundle
which he had dropped, and Myrtle clapped her hands joyfully as he
displayed a number of well-selected books and literary papers. The two
were soon occupied over them to the utter exclusion of the rest, for the
efforts of Rafe Norris to take part in the business were put aside with
an ease which showed that Dave considered himself master of the
situation.
“Oh, let up, Dave,” said Old Pegs; “drop them cussid books and talk to
us. What did you hear new at the fort?”
“I heard that the Hudson Bay are going to trap on our side this year, in
spite of our men.”
“Hey! Now it looks like our boys will let ’em, don’t it?”
“They are not the kind of men easily trodden underfoot, as you know
well,” replied Dave, grimly. “I’ve fought the Hudson Bay for ten years
and I’m not going to be driven out of my way by them now.”
“I’ve heard that the Hudson Bay was very strong this year in the number
of their men,” said Rafe Norris.
“Scissors!” roared Old Pegs. “You don’t ’spose we keer fur thet, do you?
Hark; what’s thet?”
They heard a fierce growl from the bear, and then a cry of mortal agony.
The three men grasped their weapons, and darting away in the direction
of the sound, found the bear locked in a close grapple with an Indian,
while another was running rapidly across the opening.
“Spies!” cried Old Pegs, pointing after the flying man. “Stop him,
Dave!”
Dave Farrell brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired, apparently
without aim. The flying savage paused suddenly, made a leap into the air
and fell upon his face.
“Euchered!” said Old Pegs, quietly. “I don’t want no Injins in my camp,
you bet! Let’s look arter this chap Bruin hez harnessed.”
The teeth of the bear were fastened in the shoulder of the Indian with
whom he struggled, and his claws were tearing him limb from limb. Old
Pegs caught the brute by the neck, and by the exercise of all his
muscular power, coupled with a loud command, managed to separate the
two, and the Indian, a horrible object to look at, sunk back upon the
sod, bleeding at every vein.
Old Pegs stooped to raise him, but at this moment his eyes opened and
rested upon the face of Rafe Norris, who had followed the rest. A look
of recognition passed over his face, and he seemed about to speak, when
Norris drew a pistol and shot him through the heart as coolly as if he
had been a dying brute.
“It is better to put him out of his misery,” he said, quietly; “and, as
you say, it won’t do to have spies about us.”
“That was a coward shot,” cried Dave, angrily. “How dare you kill a
wounded man before us?”
“My young friend,” replied Rafe, in his smooth tone, “don’t let us make
any mistakes or have a quarrel out here, for I am quick on the trigger
and _might_ shoot.”
“Our boys don’t scare very easy,” was the answer, “and are always ready
to take and give. If you are inclined that way, I don’t know but it is
just as well to humor you.”
“Hold on, boys,” cried Old Pegs. “I take a hand in this game, myself.
The fust man that lifts a weepen hez got ter stand a shot from me.”
“I will not be bullied by any man alive,” cried Rafe Norris. “If I shot
this savage, it was only to put him out of pain, for any man can see
that he would have been dead in five minutes.”
“Mout be you are right, Rafe,” replied Old Pegs; “but, why didn’t you
let him die the nat’ral way? It almost seemed to me thet the cuss know’d
you, and was going ter speak.”
“Pshaw; what will you suspect next, I wonder? I never saw the fellow in
my life.”
“I ain’t going to conterdict you, Rafe, acause it won’t pay, ez I hain’t
got no proof. Howsumever, thar lies the critter with a bullet in the
heart, and he’s rubbed out, easy. But, what I want ter know is this:
what is this yer _Modoc Sioux_ doing in this kentry?”
“Modoc Sioux!” cried Dave, looking more closely at the dead savage. “You
are right, old man, and it is a surprise to see a party of that tribe in
the heart of the Blackfoot country.”
Rafe Norris started; an angry look came into his face, for he thought he
saw suspicion in the eyes of the two men. That branch of the great Sioux
nation known as the Modoc Sioux were notorious for their hostility to
the whites, and their country was far away.
“Let’s look at the other chap,” said Old Pegs. “This hyar gets me, it
does; it gets me dead ter rights.”
They hurried to the side of the Indian who had been so suddenly stricken
by the fatal bullet of Dave Farrell, and turned him over. The ball had
entered the back just below the left shoulder, and passed through his
heart, so that his death was instantaneous. His face was calm and
peaceful, and both the mountainmen started as they recognized
“Half-breed Jack,” a man who was known far and wide as one of most
trusted employes of the Hudson Bay Company—a villain who was capable of
any crime.
“Now this begins to look like business,” said Dave. “Old Pegs, you and I
must talk this matter over alone.”
“Why alone, my mountain hero?” demanded Rafe, in a bantering tone. “Am I
to understand that you do not consider me a trustworthy person?”
“We never trust strangers with our business,” replied Dave. “You do not
seem in the least surprised to see Half-breed Jack lying here.”
“Half-breed Jack, eh? And who, pray, is Half-breed Jack?”
“If you don’t know now, you never will,” was the ambiguous reply. “Here,
old man, let’s you and I have a talk.”
“I see that you are disposed to set my friends against me,” said Rafe,
angrily. “Beware, young man. I am one who never forgets or forgives an
injury, and one day I may take occasion to remind you of this one.”
“All right; will you be kind enough to leave us alone now?”
Rafe stood for full two minutes looking with a dark scowl into the face
of the young captain of the “Trapping Brigade,” and then, turning on his
heel, he walked toward the cabin, his heart torn by contending passions.
Old Pegs and Dave remained over the body of the half-breed, looking very
ill at ease.
“This man is not to be trusted,” said Dave, quickly. “I can not place
him, but I am certain that I have seen him under circumstances of
peculiar significance. I can not for my life remember any thing except
the place, and that was Fort Garry.”
“He mout hev been thar jest ez you were, Dave. Beavers and bufflers! you
don’t go back on a man acause he’s bin in Fort Garry, does you?”
“I’ll wager my existence that he is a bad man,” replied Dave, hotly. “He
has a nasty drop in his eye that I don’t like, and one day you will find
that I am right. Why should the Modoc Sioux be here? Don’t you know that
no man on earth has as much influence among them as Half-breed Jack?”
“Thet don’t hurt Rafe Norris, my boy.”
“But that Indian he killed knew him, I am almost willing to swear; and,
God forgive me if I do him wrong, but I think he killed him fearing that
the Sioux might say something to betray him.”
“I had the same thort in my mind, Dave, I allow,” said Old Pegs. “Now,
what do you perpose to do?”
“I’m going to put a spy on him when he leaves this place that will trail
him through to Oregon but he’ll find out who he is.”
“Agreed, Dave; but don’t rile up at the man acause he’s taken a fancy
ter my little gal. I see whar the harniss is tight onto you, but,
buttermilk and molasses! you don’t think I’d give my gal ter sech ez
him!”
“It would have been better if you had let the Indians have their way
anyhow. You’ve broken with Whirlwind, a man who is capable of doing you
a great deal of harm, for the sake of a man you don’t know.”
“Whirlwind never see’d me at all, Dave. But, look yer; I never thort I’d
hear Dave Farrell tork in thet way abowt saving a feller white man’s
life.”
“I was wrong, and I beg your pardon,” said Dave. “Perhaps I am
unreasonably jealous, but I thought that Myrtle looked with some favor
upon him. If I thought so—”
“You’d raise Kain, wouldn’t you? Now don’t be an idjiot, Dave, acause I
kain’t stand it. Let’s plant these chunks of kussidness som’ers, and git
’em out of the way.”
It did not take long by means of a shovel which Old Pegs brought out of
the copse, to dig a shallow grave, in which they laid the two Indians,
piling a heap of stones upon the bodies to guard them from the wolves.
This done, they went back to the cabin, where they found Myrtle and Rafe
Norris seated rather close together, while he was explaining a book
which Dave had brought. If the young captain had a fault it was
jealousy, and the blood started into his face as he noted the position
of the pair. Deeply interested as she was in the explanation, in her
eager desire for knowledge, Myrtle did not look up as they came in, and
even her father looked a little vexed, for he did not like to see her
becoming interested in Rafe Norris.
“Oh, Dave!” she cried, looking up at last. “You would be interested in
the account which Mr. Norris is giving of the Aleutian Islands. He was
there on a voyage not long ago.”
“I fear Mr. Farrell does not appreciate my poor endeavors to entertain
you, Miss Myrtle,” said Rafe, who interpreted rightly the expression of
David Farrell’s face. “But, if you have no objections, we will go on.”
“I reckon we’d better postpone the study, jest now,” said Old Pegs.
“Dave hez a good ’eal to tell you about his visit to civilization,
Myrtle.”
“By no means,” replied Dave, taking up his weapons. “While Miss Myrtle
is so pleasantly engaged, I can not find it in my heart to interfere.”
With these words he hurried out of the cabin before Myrtle could stop
him, and Old Pegs started up to follow. When he reached the door, Dave
was half-way across the opening, moving on at the long, swinging pace
into which a man insensibly falls, who is used to long marches over the
prairie. The old hunter hurried after him, calling him by name.
“Let him go, the jealous boor,” said Rafe, quickly. “We can dispense
with his company easily enough.”
“Mr. Norris,” said Myrtle, flushing, “you forget yourself when you call
my friends hard names. I am very sorry for what has happened, for no one
can be better, braver or more true hearted than the man you call a
boor.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Norris in a tone of contrition. “The word
slipped out before I had time to think, for of course it would be
ungentlemanly in me to thus stigmatize a friend of yours. But, he is
something of a dog in the manger, and seems to arrogate to himself the
right to your society, to the complete exclusion of men as good as
himself. Let us go back to our book.”
“I am tired of it now,” she replied, pushing it aside. “Let me alone,
sir; how dare you touch my hand.”
“Unintentional, upon my honor, Miss Myrtle. Surely you do not propose to
follow our sulky young friend and beg him to come back?”
“I ought to do so, but I fear that I am not brave enough, sir. All that
I am, as far as education goes, he made me. He has ridden many miles
through a hostile country to bring me these books, and now I have driven
him away when night is coming on.”
“Let me replace him,” he said. “Such beauty as yours need not go
begging, and you will do well to trust me; better than you think, if you
knew all.”
She brushed by him angrily, and made for the door, but he caught her by
the wrist to detain her.
“Release me, sir!” she cried, the blood mounting into her cheek. “You
insult me.”
“I think I am going mad indeed,” he replied in a hoarse, strained voice,
dropping her hand. “I can not bear to have you leave me for his sake. I
never have yielded so completely to woman’s witchery in an hour, and I
am thus bold in speaking to you, because I may never have the
opportunity. I love you as well as if I had known you for years, and you
must listen to me.”
“You are perfectly in the right, Mr. Norris, in saying that you are mad,
for nothing else could prompt you to speak in this manner. Let me hear
no more of it—I beg.”
“I do not ask you to love me, now,” he replied earnestly. “Give me a
chance; let me show you what I will do for the woman I love; that is all
I ask.”
“I shall not notice this foolishness upon your part, by telling my
father what you have said, sir, for I would not answer for what he would
do. But, let me hear no more of it, I beg you. Hush; father is coming
back.”
He sunk back on a stool, his face absolutely ghastly with intense
passion, as the door was flung open and Old Pegs hurried in alone.
“Don’t say any thing to me, Myrtle, fur I ain’t in good humer,” he said
in an almost angry tone. “I never thought you a flirt before, but ef you
drive away Dave Farrell, you drive away the best man in the mount’ins,
that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Has he gone?” she said anxiously.
“He’s out thar in the pass. And stranger, I warn you to keep out of his
way, because he ain’t in a heavenly temper. Hark!”
Swift steps were heard, the door was flung open, and Dave rushed into
the room, pale and nearly breathless with a long arrow sticking in his
shoulder. “Indians!” he gasped. “Get Myrtle out of the way, quick!”
CHAPTER IV.
WHIRLWIND.
With the cat-like quickness which he always showed in moments of danger,
Old Pegs sprung to the door and dropped the heavy bars in their places,
while Myrtle closed and barred the blinds. It was not done a moment too
soon, for they heard the rapid beat of hoofs and could tell by the
sounds that a large party of Indians were in the valley. Rafe Norris
stepped to one of the loop-holes always left when a cabin is built in an
Indian country, and looked out and saw that it was the band of
Whirlwind.
“Now then, what’s the ticket?” demanded Old Pegs. “Is it going ter be a
b’ar-fight?”
“There seems to be no other course,” replied Norris.
“Oh, yes, thar is,” replied the old hunter. “I’ve got more than one
string to my bow, and we kin fight or hide, jest ez you like.”
“My plan would be to get the lady into the hiding-place you speak of,
and then teach these Indians what it means to attack three well-armed
white men.”
“Jest my plan,” said Old Pegs. “Wait a minnit.”
He turned to assist Dave who was trying to draw out the arrow which had
lodged in the fleshy part of the shoulder. But it had not passed quite
through, and the barbs would not permit him to draw it out.
“Let me take hold,” said Old Pegs. “Look the other way, Myrtle.”
He grasped the shaft of the arrow, and by a quick movement forced it
through the flesh, so that the head appeared. Dave bore the pain without
even wincing, and the old man broke off the arrow, threw down the head,
and drew out the broken shaft.
“It don’t amount to any thing,” said Dave, cheerily. “Come with me,
Myrtle; it won’t be long before the Blackfeet pitch in, and I want a
hand in the game.”
“I don’t want to go away,” she answered. “I never raised a rifle against
a human being yet, but in a cause like this, I can do good service.”
The red-skins had not yet seen the cabin, but half a dozen were out of
the saddle running to and fro in search of Dave—who they knew must be
concealed somewhere near at hand.
“They don’t see us yet, I believe,” said Dave, stepping to a loop-hole,
“but it won’t be long before they nose us out. Shall I give that
skulking fellow a shot, old man?”
“Not yit,” replied Old Pegs. “I don’t want ter hit the fust blow.”
Just then one of the savages discovered the cabin, and set up a yell
which quickly called the attention of the rest. Not a few of them had
rifles, and dismounting they began to creep up toward the mountain
house.
“Wait a minnit, boys,” said Old Pegs. “We’ll give ’em a most immortal
thrashing afore sundown or my name ain’t Old Pegs. Thunder; what’s
that?”
A rattling volley was suddenly poured into the Blackfeet from the rear,
and the scouts who had been seen crawling up to the cabin went back with
wild yells of surprise, and sprung into the saddle, while counter yells
arose from the front and flanks.
“Je—whitteker!” yelled Old Pegs. “Hear the onnatril varmint sound ther
loud alarums. Who be they—who in thunder be they?”
“Perhaps it is the brigade,” said Myrtle, hopefully.
“’Tain’t so; d’ye think the boys in Farrell’s brigade yell like that?
Them’s Injuns, but what tribe and why they ar’ sailing in on the
Blackfeet, the devil may know. Let’s rush out and help ’em, anyhow.”
The wound of Dave Farrell was at best but a slight one, and rushing out
with Old Pegs and Rafe Norris, all armed with heavy rifles, they began
to blaze away at the now retreating Blackfeet. Assailed thus in front,
flank and rear, these gallant men did not give up but fought with a
devotion to their leader which would have done credit to men of a higher
civilization. One by one they dropped from their saddles until only five
were left, and among these the brave chief Whirlwind, who had passed
unscathed through the hail-storm of leaden balls.
“Dogs!” cried the chief, shaking his lance in the air. “Whirlwind will
go, but when he comes again his vengeance will be terrible.”
Calling to the few men who surrounded him he wheeled his horse and
dashed away across the little valley, making no further effort to force
his way through the pass which was so closely environed by his enemies.
Many dusky figures darted from the bushes on every hand, and shot after
shot was sent after the flying horsemen, and while they were yet within
short rifle range three of Whirlwind’s men dropped bleeding to the
earth. But the chief seemed to bear a charmed life and disappeared
behind a clump of trees near the center of the glade. Many Indians were
seen racing after him on foot, and it needed but a glance to show Old
Pegs that they were Modoc Sioux, the inveterate enemies of the
Blackfeet.
“Git cover, quick!” cried the old hunter. “They’ll see us.”
“It is of no use to hide,” replied Rafe Norris. “I, for one, mean to
yield myself a prisoner, and I advise you to do the same.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when he experienced a strange
sensation. A vise-like grip fell upon his shoulder, and the steel muzzle
of a pistol was pressed against his temple. This pistol was held by Dave
Farrell, whose teeth were firmly set and whose eyes seemed to emit
flashes of light.
“Move a step until I order you, wag a finger even, and you die.”
“What means this conduct?” hissed Rafe, white with contending passions.
“Do you mean to murder me in cold blood?”
“Not a bit of it. You see those Indians coming this way, don’t you?”
“What of that?”
“Order them to halt.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Am I to be killed like a dog, you old
villain? Why do you stand there like a stone and make no effort to aid
me?”
“Better do as Dave asks you, Rafe. It ain’t a bad plan to try the
’speriment.”
“But I know nothing of these Indians.”
“Ef Dave hez made a mistake he’s ter make it right with you,” answered
Old Pegs.
“One more chance before I scatter your brains upon the sod,” hissed
Dave. “Will you stop those Indians? Speak their language—you know how.”
Rafe Norris cast one look at the stern face of the captain of scouts,
and saw that a refusal would be death to him. He turned and shouted to
the advancing Indians, and to the surprise of Old Pegs, who thought that
Dave had made a mistake, they halted immediately, while cries of
surprise could be heard among them, and the others came running up.
Those who had been halted by the command of Rafe Norris pointed him out
as he stood in the grasp of Dave, and it was plain that they knew him
and were surprised to see him in his present position.
“Do you see that, Old Pegs?” cried Farrell. “Now doz you tell me that
this fellow knows nothing of the Modoc Sioux?”
“Stranger,” said Old Pegs, “I’ve warmed a viper in my buzzum. Now then,
order them pizen sarpints ter git. The quicker they go, the longer
they’ll hev the satisfaction on knowing that you ar’ alive.”
“Why should they obey me?” replied Rafe. “You are a couple of cowardly
hounds to attack an unsuspecting man in this way.”
“‘Unsuspecting’! Oh, yes—thet’s a good word, but you jest send ’em away
all the same or I’ll pulverize you—I will, by the sacred groves of
Ireland. You hear me a-talking?”
Rafe saw that the game was up, and that he might as well save his life
if possible.
“What shall I tell them?”
“Tell ’em to go down to the sulphur spring at the base of the North
Canon, and wait fur you thar.”
Rafe hesitated, but the circle of cold steel upon his temple cowed him
for the time, and he shouted the required order. Signal cries were
heard, and the pursuers of Whirlwind came back on the run, having been
unsuccessful in their attempt to overtake that redoubted chief who had
found some avenue of escape. The orders of Rafe Norris were repeated,
and the whole party trooped away down the pass, leaving Rafe still in
the hands of Farrell.
“I suspected you from the very start, my good friend,” said Dave, “and
this is not the first time I have earthed a fox of your breed. It is
useless for you to attempt to deceive us, for we know you now. You are a
Hudson Bay man, and I know it.”
“You lie.”
“Be careful, my boy. You are a prisoner, and I don’t like to injure a
man who is so completely in my power, but don’t use bad language. Your
fellows have done us such good service in breaking up the party of
Whirlwind that I am inclined to be rather lenient with you, but at the
same time we won’t stand every thing.”
“Do you mean to keep me a prisoner?”
“I have not decided what to do with you yet. No doubt our old friend
here will give you house room for to-night, and after that we will see
what can be done.”
“You shall repent this if I can escape from your hands, as you may be
sure I will do some day. I will never rest until I have your life.”
“Enough of that. Have you got a piece of good buck-skin handy, old man?
I think we had better tie this feller’s feet.”
“Do not dare to degrade me with bonds,” cried Rafe, savagely. “If you do
my revenge will be terrible.”
“All right; we’ll tie you up all the same. You might take it into your
head to go after your Indian friends and bring them back on us.”
“I will speak no more,” replied Norris. “Do with me as you will.”
Old Pegs drew from the bosom of his hunting-shirt, two or three stout
buck-skin thongs which he used in tying the hands of Norris behind his
back. Having performed this service to his satisfaction, he linked the
feet of the prisoner together at the ankles in such a way that he could
take a step of about six inches, but no more.
“Thet’s all right, Dave,” he said. “Now, who in thunder is thet chap?”
A man in greasy buck-skin was seen running rapidly toward them with the
pet bear, Bruin, close at his heels, evidently bent on mischief. Old
Pegs ran up to meet him, shouting to the bear, and managed to interfere
before Bruin could clutch his prey—a proceeding which the bear resented
with low growls of discontent, while the new-comer sat down puffing,
with a very red face and looked at his rescuer.
“Durn the b’ar!” he growled. “What d’ye keep sech a pheroxious beast
fur, stranger?”
“Jest fer greens, my boy,” replied Old Pegs. “Seems ter me strangers ar’
gitting rather thick in this hyar clearing. Who the devil be _you_?”
“I’m a poor critter that’s jest got away from the pizen Injuns and I
come mighty nigh bein’ swallowed by a b’ar by gracious. I don’t hanker
a’ter sich, but ef I’d ’a’ hed my weepons I’d ’a’ give him Jesse, you
bet.”
The speaker would never have been “hung for his good looks,” although he
might have suffered for irreclaimable homeliness. He was a tall, thin
specimen of the mountainman, with shaggy hair and beard, and a snaky eye
which was far from pleasant to look at.
“What Injuns did you git away from, stranger?” demanded Old Pegs.
“Them cussid Modoc Sioux. Oh, I know ’em—I know ’em from stern to
gizzard—I know ’em arternoons. You see, they ketched me up hyur, by the
big spring when I was trying to find the trapping brigade, and they tuk
traps, rifle and all ez clean ez a whistle. I ain’t got hide nor h’ar
left.”
The man did indeed look forlorn enough. His clothing hung in tatters; he
had no hat, and the blood was flowing from a ragged cut across his
forehead, where a bullet had grazed the skin.
“Thet was a clust rub, stranger.”
“It were, mate, mighty clust. Ye see I made a break when they pitched
inter the Blackfeet and one of them fired at me, and gev me this beauty
spot.”
“Very kind in him, I must say. What are these Sioux doing here at this
time?”
“I dunno; they ar’ out of ther stamping-ground a smart heap.”
“You bet; who is ther leader?”
“I dunno his name; but I think they called him Curly-headed Ned. Anyhow,
thet’s a name he’s got on the border.”
“Did you see him?”
“He didn’t show hisself while I was thar. I say, boss, who’s that you’ve
got in that outlandish hitch?”
“Thet chap, we think, knows too much about these Modoc Sioux and
konsekently we jist tuk the liberty of kinder hitching him up.”
“The varmint! Let me get at him and I’ll chaw him up, audacious.
Yah—hip! I _want_ his ha’r. Lend me a knife, some one; a hairpin, a
toothpick—_any_ cussid thing. I will hev his wool.”
“You don’t say thet you are so hot arter blood ez thet ar’, stranger?
No—I reckon not; he’s our meat, and we don’t ’low nobuddy else to tech
him.”
“Tain’t fa’r, anyhow, boss. Hyar I stand jest out of ther blasted hitch
and it hurts my feelin’s powerful bad, because I ain’t let to mount him.
Say, you pizen sarpint,” he cried, shaking his clenched hand under
Rafe’s nose, “why kain’t I chaw ye up?”
“You are a fit associate for these two ruffians,” replied Norris,
proudly. “It would not surprise me if they allowed you to murder me
while my hands are tied.”
“Oh, thunder, ef they only _would_! Say, boss, kain’t I hit him once,
fur luck?”
“You are over zealous in the cause,” said Farrell, coldly. “Stand aside
and let the prisoner alone.”
“Little boy,” replied the escaped man, “you hurt my feelin’s awful when
you talk that way, and I shill feel obliged to jump on ye with both
feet.”
“That’s enough, my man,” replied Farrell, laying his hand upon a pistol.
“What is your name?”
“I ain’t heeled—that’s what’s the matter with me—an’ you’ve got the
gaffs on. It ain’t ekal—that’s what I say—it ain’t ekal, and you know it
ain’t. Let me hev a fourteen inch toothpick in my hand, and ef I don’t
crow loud, my name ain’t Velveteens.”
“Is that your name? Come, come; you should not quarrel with us, if you
want help.”
“Velveteens, the boys call me, and they call me that becoz I’m nat’rally
so soft and tender-hearted. I be—by gracious. I’m too good fur this
wicked, wicked world.”
“What do you want?”
“I was gwine to jine the brigade, but I’m afeard thar ain’t no chance
now. I’ve lost my traps and shootin’-irons.”
“That will not trouble you if you can prove yourself a true man.
However, you can pass the night here, and in the morning we’ll see what
can be done.”
“Much obliged; who be you?”
“Captain Farrell of the trapping brigade.”
“Whew! And to think I lowered myself to rile up at you. It was durned
ridiculous.”
Dave Farrell took the prisoner in charge, led him to the cabin and put
him in a small room in the rear. Rafe did not look up as he heard
Myrtle’s exclamation of surprise, but passed on sullenly to his prison,
where he sunk down upon the floor and dropped his head upon his arms.
The moment the door closed upon Farrell he sprung to his feet and
laughed scornfully, for he knew his power well. Yet he listened
earnestly while Dave told Myrtle the story to which she listened with a
look of horror.
“Revenge is sweet,” he muttered. “My hour will come.”
CHAPTER V.
A COWARD’S DEED.
By the time the Indian dead were buried, darkness had come and the party
were gathered in the large room of the cabin at supper. They were quite
merry and Rafe listened with a grim smile as the man who called himself
Velveteens recounted the manner of his capture and escape at length,
going into particulars as to time and place.
“The rascal!” muttered Rafe. “Oh, he is a precious villain if his story
is true.”
Shortly after Old Pegs brought the prisoner something to eat, removing
his bonds while he did so, in order to give him the use of his hands.
“I want my strength for the work before me,” said Rafe, “or I would not
again break bread under your roof.”
“I’ll break a head under my roof if you don’t keep quiet you bruiser,”
replied Old Pegs. “Thunder and blood; one would think you was an
innercent cuss to hear you tork.”
“And so I am.”
“So’s yer grandmother! I ain’t going ter tork about it now, I tell you
fa’r; so shet up.”
Rafe ate in gloomy silence, when he was carefully tied up again by Old
Pegs and left alone. Velveteens was entertaining Dave Farrell and Myrtle
by an account of the country in the region of the “big pines” of
California, and Old Pegs dropped into the circle to listen. Bruin was
there, too, and strangely enough seemed to have taken a decided dislike
to Velveteens, and showed a disposition to attack him from time to time.
It was only the authority of his master which served the unfortunate
ex-captive from trouble.
“I don’t know what’s got inter you, Bruin,” said his master. “I’m
ashamed of you; don’t you know yer friends?”
“That b’ar ain’t safe,” said Velveteens; “and I reckon you’d better
shoot him.”
“Shoot him? I’d raise that man’s ha’r that did it, by gracious. Go on
with yer bird’s-egging, stranger; spin another yarn about them big
pines.”
“You keep the b’ar off me, then. I don’t half injy myself while he’s
foolin’ around me.”
To please the fellow, Old Pegs put the bear out of the cabin and came
back.
“What do ye do with that b’ar o’ nights, boss?” Velveteens asked.
“We leave him outside; a mighty good watch-dorg, is Bruin. He don’t ’low
no one to go slashing round _this_ house, arter dark.”
The countenance of Velveteens fell several degrees and he lost his usual
loquacity. The subject of the bear seemed to trouble him, and he
returned to it again, insisting upon it that such an animal ought to be
chained during the night.
“I reckon yer skeery about b’ars,” said Old Pegs. “I’ll humor you this
time, and shut the b’ar up behind the house.”
This was done and Velveteens seemed more at ease, though Bruin kept up a
fearful growling in his prison, tearing at the logs and snapping at his
chain. Old Pegs went out on a scout, taking his new friend with him, and
leaving Dave with Myrtle. I don’t know how it was done, but before half
an hour had passed the two had forgotten their little “tiff” of the
morning and were sitting side by side, hand clasped in hand, as only
lovers sit, while through the chinks in the walls of the prison Rafe
Norris glared at them.
“How long must I wait for revenge?” he muttered. “Oh, I will make him
repent in dust and ashes the hour he led me, bound like a dog, into her
presence. And you, proud rustic beauty, shall know what it is to scorn
the love of such a man as I!”
Old Pegs very wisely kept out of the way for over two hours. Those hours
were hours of agony to Rafe Norris. To see the woman he loved sitting
with her head upon the bosom of the man he hated, while his strong arm
encircled her slender waist, was torture. If his hands had been free,
and he could have reached a weapon, that moment had been death, perhaps
to both the lovers.
Old Pegs came back at last, and announced that they had seen no signs of
Indians, and had reason to believe that they had decamped entirely. He
found the young couple very much engaged over a book which Dave had
brought from the fort, and grinned widely as he saw the trouble was
over. Dave had begged her forgiveness but a moment before, and she had
sealed it with a loving kiss.
“Hev you looked at the pris’ner while I’ve been gone?” demanded Old
Pegs.
Dave looked a trifle foolish, for, if the truth must be told, he had
forgotten that such a person as Rafe Norris existed. Old Pegs laughed
and opened the door of the room, where he saw Rafe extended on the
floor, apparently asleep. Velveteens looked over his shoulder, as he did
so.
“He’s a desprut mean cuss, _that_, I’ll bet on,” he said. “D’ye mean to
stand guard all night?”
“No; he kain’t git away.”
“Then I wish ye’d show a place to sleep, fur I’m ’most mortal tired.
I’ve hed a hard time, lately.”
The hunter gave the man a blanket, and he wrapped it about him and lay
down on the floor, quite near the door of the room in which Rafe Norris
was confined. The lovers paid but little attention to him and sat, until
quite late, talking in low tones, which he could not hear if he had been
inclined to do so. Old Pegs stepped into a sort of alcove in one corner,
and, satisfied that all was safe, soon fell asleep.
Some hours after, Dave came in to share his blanket, while Myrtle went
into the curtained recess where she slept.
Two hours later, Velveteens, who had been not only asleep but snoring,
raised his head softly and looked about him. The moon was shining
brightly, and he could see every object in the room distinctly.
The loud snoring of Old Pegs and the heavy breathing of Dave Farrell
satisfied him that they were asleep, and raising himself softly—for, as
we have said, he slept quite close to the prison-door—he pulled the
latch-string, and the door swung open without noise.
It looked as if Rafe Norris had expected to see him, for he lay upon the
floor with his head close to the door, and when Velveteens lay down
again, shifted his position so as to keep his hands in view.
Some steel instrument gleamed in the moonlight, and the bonds fell from
the hands of the prisoner; a moment more, and his feet were also free.
He now sat up and began to rub his feet and ankles vigorously, to
restore the lost circulation, while Velveteens lay down and began to
snore in such a perfect manner that no one would have dreamed for a
moment that he was not asleep.
Ten minutes later, Rafe Norris stood in the main room and took up Old
Pegs’ knife, which lay upon a stool, and seemed about to rush into the
recess where the two men slept, when Velveteens threw his arms about him
and held him fast.
“What’s that?” demanded the gruff voice of Old Pegs.
Quick as thought, Rafe darted back into the room and closed the door,
just as the huge head of Old Pegs was thrust out of the recess.
“I wanted a drink,” said Velveteens.
“Thar’s some in the bucket; but why in thunder do you wake a feller up
this way? I don’t like it, not to speak of,” growled the hunter.
“I was awful dry,” replied Velveteens, as he took up the gourd. “I won’t
trouble you again to-night.”
Old Pegs went back with a snort of disapproval, and again fell asleep.
When satisfied of this, Velveteens tapped once on the door, and it swung
open as softly as before. Rafe Norris had seen that it was idle to
attempt revenge upon his enemies now, as both of them slept so lightly,
and following Velveteens, he crept toward the door, when they heard a
deep growl and the rattle of a chain.
Bruin had in some way broken loose and dragged himself to the door,
lying across the threshold. The two men looked at each other in
confusion and dismay, for they dared not pass out while that gigantic
sentinel lay in the way.
“Go back to yer room,” whispered Velveteens. “I’ve got some wolf-bait
hyar, and I’ll fix the black cuss.”
Rafe slipped back to the room, and Velveteens took down from the wall a
piece of venison, which might have weighed four pounds. This he cut
open, and from a pocket of his ragged hunting-shirt he now took a
bottle, from which he shook into the cut a quantity of a whitish
substance and then closed up the orifice he had made.
The window was partially raised, and thrusting out his hand, he dropped
the meat under the nose of Bruin, who snapped it up greedily and
devoured it in the twinkling of an eye. Having done his work, Velveteens
lay down again, while Rafe watched from the open door of the room in
which he had been confined, ready to make a rush if either Dave or Old
Pegs came out of the recess.
A few moments later, they heard a scuffling, confused sound and the
rattle of a chain, as if the bear was running away at the top of his
speed.
Velveteens chuckled and beckoned to Rafe, who again came out softly, and
the two stood in the middle of the room a moment; and then, opening the
door carefully, they went out together, closing the door after them,
while the others, never dreaming of the escape, slept profoundly.
It was nearly morning when Old Pegs rose, took up his rifle—which always
lay within reach of his hand—and went out into the main room.
He saw that the blanket of Velveteens was empty, and the door of the
prison open. Springing to the door, he looked in, and his cry of rage
awoke Dave, who started up and came out, to find Old Pegs dancing wildly
about the room, swearing like a trooper.
“He’s a nice cuss, that Velveteens, he is!” he screamed. “He ’scaped
from the Sioux—he did! Oh, knives and razor-grinders! Oh, dog every
button on my shirt, he’s cheated us!”
“Gone!” cried Dave, in dismay.
“Yaas, gone; gone like a thief in the night. Fled like a shadder,
leaving no sign to mark the spot whar he laid down. Oh, how it grinds me
that I didn’t let old Bruin chaw him up.”
“He is evidently in league with the Sioux and Rafe Norris,” said Dave.
“Shall we try to follow them?”
“And what makes me so cussid mad,” continued Old Pegs, paying no
attention to the question, “he got me ter chain up Bruin over night. He
knowed right well, the owdashus cuss, thet the b’ar would never hev let
him out. I git so mad sometimes when I think of it I c’u’d eat my shirt.
Oh mortal pizen, ef I _ever_ meet him!”
“What shall we do?” demanded Dave. “It isn’t safe to waste any time if
these Modoc Sioux are really his men.”
“What is the matter, father?” cried Myrtle from her sleeping apartment.
“They’ve dug out, both them low-lived skunks,” snarled Old Pegs. “Git up
and dress, gal; we must git out’n this mighty quick. Dave, come with
me.”
They ran out of the house, and quickly found the trail which led out of
the little valley to the south. Following it rapidly, they soon
satisfied themselves that their enemies had really left the valley,
going toward the “Sulphur Spring,” where Rafe had appointed the
rendezvous.
“They’ve gone ter jine the Injins,” said Old Pegs. “Won’t you be so good
ez to give me a big kick astarn, Dave? I desarve it.”
“What is done—is done,” replied Dave, “and we can not avoid it. What is
that by the spring yonder?”
“It looks like Bruin,” replied Old Pegs. “The black thief got away arter
all, and I wonder he let ’em go.”
“Probably he did not break away until after their departure,” replied
Dave. “Let us call him.”
He gave a shrill whistle, the call which Bruin always answered, but to
their surprise the bear did not move. Running up hastily, they found the
bear lying by the side of the spring, his tongue hanging out of his
mouth, and a white foam lying thick upon the grass.
“He’s dead, by the rock of Gibraltar!” roared the bear’s master. “Them
mean cusses hev killed him, but whar’s the blood?”
“He has died in a different way,” replied Dave. “Look at his mouth.”
Old Pegs saw at a glance how his bear had died. He had killed too many
wolves with strychnine, to have any doubt of the cause of his death, and
his anger broke out afresh.
“Thar’s going to be war when that Velveteens and Old Pegs come together
ag’in,” said the old man in an unusually quiet tone, which he only used
in moments of intense passion. “I’ll raise his ha’r, or my name ain’t
what it is. Come along; it is only a half day’s walk ter the spring, and
they ar’ thar afore now. They’ll be up hyar by noon, the hull b’iling,
and we’ve got ter be ready.”
As they turned to move away there was a movement in the bushes close to
them, and a savage face looked out at them, his eyes burning with
intense passion. It was Whirlwind, the Blackfoot chief. He held in his
hand a long bow and seemed about to fit an arrow to the string, but upon
second thought replaced the bow and called to Old Pegs by name.
“Let Short Legs turn back and have a talk with a great chief,” he cried.
“Durn my hide,” said Old Pegs. “Whar did he come from? Shill we humor
him, Dave? He seems ter be alone.”
“It may benefit us much if we can make friends with him,” replied Dave.
The two turned back hastily, and Whirlwind came quietly out of his place
of concealment and met them. He seemed to have no fear of them, strongly
armed as they were, and advanced boldly to meet them.
“Whirlwind is welcome,” said Old Pegs in the Indian tongue. “Why is he
here?”
“Last sun Whirlwind had many braves,” replied the Indian, “but now, he
has not one. The Sioux dogs trapped them like beaver, and they fell.”
Old Pegs was silent, because he did not know how the Indian might regard
his share in the battle of the day before.
“My brothers fought against the Blackfeet, too,” continued the chief.
“That was well, because the Blackfeet struck first when they did not
know who they fought. Whirlwind would be a friend to Short Legs and the
Beaver Captain.”
“I am willing to be friends,” replied Dave, “but you put an arrow
through my shoulder, yesterday.”
“Yesterday we were enemies, to-day we will be friends.”
“And to-morrow enemies again.”
“Not if Whirlwind smokes a pipe with his white brothers. See; Whirlwind
seeks vengeance on the Modoc Sioux, who have come into his country and
killed his men. Short Legs and the Beaver Captain shall help him.”
“Do you wish to be a friend to the man who was with us last sun?”
“No!” replied the chief, sullenly. “Whirlwind will not smoke a pipe with
him.”
“I am glad of that,” continued Dave, “for he is our enemy. Let Whirlwind
bring a pipe and we will smoke.”
The smoking of the peace-pipe was a binding obligation to the Indians,
who would not begin a war again until the men with whom they had smoked
had been fairly warned. A pipe was lighted and passed from mouth to
mouth, and the ceremony was complete.
“Whirlwind will go now,” said the chief. “Let my brothers trap beaver in
the hills in peace when winter comes, the Blackfeet will not harm them.
Look for my warriors when the sun sets twice by the three great rocks.”
He waved them farewell, and started away at a quick pace, taking a
direction across the mountain. For two hours the whites were occupied in
carrying out of the house for concealment, every article they wished to
keep safe, and by the time the sun was at meridian the work was done,
and they waited quietly for the coming of the Modoc Sioux. An hour later
they came trooping into the pass, when Old Pegs, who was on the watch,
quietly retired into the cabin and shut the door.
CHAPTER VI.
A GREAT SURPRISE.
The Modoc Sioux seemed to know the situation of the house well and
scattered the moment they reached the front, and remained still as
death, waiting for the order to advance. The shutters were closed upon
the windows of the cabin, and the heavy door in its place, but not a
sound was heard. It was plain that the Modocs knew the desperate
character of the men in the house for they made no effort to advance as
yet. They were well aware of the fact that such a building defended by
two such renowned Indian-fighters as the “Beaver Captain” and Old Pegs
would hold out for a long time unless taken by stratagem.
They did not like the silence which reigned about the building, for it
seemed to them the silence of desperation. Unwilling to waste their men,
one was sent forward with a flag. He was a half-breed and spoke a sort
of mixture of French and English.
“Ah, you; in ze house.”
No reply; the same dreadful silence reigned.
“Vill you open door?” cried the envoy, again. “Let us in; smoke pipe.”
Still no reply. Nothing about the house showed that a human being
occupied it, and the man retreated in alarm, fearing a shot. But either
the defenders considered him too insignificant to fire at or they
respected a flag, even in such hands as these.
The leaders of the savages did not make their appearance, but it soon
become apparent that some movement was on foot. The sound of axes could
be plainly heard, and about twenty Indians appeared carrying a small
tree from which the limbs had been lopped within a foot of the trunk,
leaving a good hold for the hands. This was a battering ram with which
to beat down the door. Keeping behind the bushes as much as possible,
they reached a place within a hundred paces of the door, when they laid
the log down and took breath before the final effort. A man in Indian
garb with a hideously painted face directed their movements.
“Remember, sons of the Sioux,” the leader said, “that these men killed
Half-breed Jack and Tuscalo. Avenge these brave men who fell for the
honor of the tribe. Now!”
They took up the log and at the signal word sprung out of the thicket
with the butt of the log directed toward the door. All expected to hear
the rifles speak the moment they came in view, but to their utter
surprise not a shot was fired and the heavy log struck the door with a
dull thud. It resisted bravely, but a second blow made the bars crack
and the moment after the stout door fell into the room and the course
was clear. Foremost among those who poured in over the shattered door
was the painted wretch who had said that Old Pegs and Dave had killed
the two Sioux the day before. He held a hatchet in one hand and a pistol
in the other, and uttered a cry of triumph as they entered, unopposed.
But, to his dismay the place was empty! Nearly all the furniture had
been removed. Even the books were gone, and those he sought had vanished
utterly. Weapons in hand they rushed through the deserted rooms hoping
to find the man they hated concealed somewhere, but they looked in vain.
There was no door at the back of the house, and even if there had been
it would have been next to impossible to climb the rugged rock in the
rear of the building.
“The white men are great medicine,” said one of the Indians with a
shudder. “Where have they gone?”
“We came too late,” replied the leader, angrily. “While we loitered on
the way they have fled.”
“Shall we burn the house?”
“No; if you destroy the nest the birds will not return to it. Leave all
as it is and some day they will come back and we shall have them.”
The Indians loitered for some time about the place, picking up such
articles as suited their fancy and appropriating them without remorse.
It was nearly an hour after the first assault when they made ready to
depart after they had sounded the walls of the house thoroughly, seeking
to fathom the mystery of the escape. They gave up in despair, and
marched away through the pass, leaving the cabin in peace.
They had scarcely been gone ten minutes when Old Pegs stepped over the
threshold, rifle in hand and followed on their trail. He was gone nearly
half an hour, and when he returned Dave had already repaired the broken
door, and replaced the furniture, while Myrtle was setting the table for
a meal.
“Haw, haw, folks!” roared Old Pegs. “Did you ever see a more ’stonished
set of varmints in your born days? It was ez good ez a play.”
“They were taken by surprise,” replied Dave, “but if Myrtle had not been
with us I could not have resisted the temptation of giving them a shot.
Rafe Norris was not with them, after all.”
“Durn him, he knowed he’d git a shot on sight and so did that cussid
Velveteens. That b’ar he killed was worth a hundred sech copper-toed
varmints ez him. It were murder, my boy—jest murder and nothing else.”
“Poor Bruin,” said Myrtle; “he was great company for me when you were
absent, father.”
“I know he were, and he hed an advantage over some humans I’ve
knowed—you c’u’d trust him! The devil won’t allus guard his own, and
some day I’ll git ekal to thet Velveteens, bet yer life!”
The party reoccupied the house as a matter of course, and seemed to
think nothing of the late raid. After eating a hearty meal Old Pegs
started out on a scout, leaving Dave to guard Myrtle. He followed the
trail of the savages by devious ways for nearly six miles over a rugged
road, part of which he had never trod before.
“They’ve got a camp some’ers nigh at hand,” he muttered, “and I’m going
ter find out whar it is ef it takes a leg. I know the Hudson Bay people,
and I’ll be darned ef they ever sot ther men ter do this kind of work.
The trail freshens a bit; I’ll hev ter look out.”
He hitched along at his usual rate of speed, throwing out his shoulders
in his peculiar manner until the low murmur of voices could be heard
coming up from the foot of the slope below him. Old Pegs at once left
the trail and plunged into the bushes, following the sounds which he
heard and advancing by slow degrees, for he knew that his life was not
worth a moment’s purchase if he should be taken. But scouting was life
itself to him, and he kept on until he was satisfied that he must be
close upon the camp, for he was approaching a clearing of some kind.
Suddenly, almost without warning, he came to the edge of a high bluff,
and parting the bushes which fringed the bank, looked down. It was one
of those valleys so common among the foot-hills, and so surrounded by
inaccessible mountains as to be a safe refuge.
The valley was now a great camp, for not less than two hundred men were
scattered about at various points, engaged in different ways.
Poker-playing seemed to be a specialty, but one ambitious individual had
a “monte” game, and was throwing for the amusement and loss of a large
party. Two-thirds of the whole force were Indians, to all outward
appearance, but seeing a painted brave seated under a tree reading a
book, convinced Old Pegs that all were not Indians who wore the garb.
The remainder of the men were of all nationalities, chiefly French
Canadians and half-breeds. A very few were English, but these kept
apart, and seemed to have little intercourse with the rest.
Who were these men, and what were they doing in the grounds of the
North-west Company? The strife between those great monopolies, the
Hudson Bay and North-west, was at this time at its hight, and Old Pegs
knew who they were and what their object was in coming here.
“Thar’ll be a b’ar-fight when Dave’s boys git wind of this yer,” thought
the old hunter. “It’s all fa’r, long ez they only bring whites ag’in’
whites, but when it comes ter Injuns, thet’s cutting it too fat. Oh,
thunder! thar’s thet cussid Velveteens.”
It was indeed that individual, who at this moment turned so that Old
Pegs had a fair view of his face. He was no longer dressed in the ragged
garb which he had worn in the rescue of Rafe Norris, but in a jaunty
hunting-dress with black belt and silver buckles, armed to the teeth,
and looking what he really was—a desperado of the first class.
“I’d like ter pop him over,” thought Old Pegs, as he threw forward his
rifle. “He sartingly desarves it. But what a wassups’ nest I’d bring
about my ears ef I did shoot. Oh, you precious skunk, _don’t_ you
desarve to die?”
The fingers of the old man itched to take a shot at the man who had
cheated him out of his prisoner and killed the pet bear in such a
cowardly way. It made his blood boil to see him swaggering about in his
gaudy dress, giving orders here and there with the air of a man in
authority. At length he paused and stood with one hand grasping his
rifle, the hand out of the line of his body, and stooped to speak with
the Indian who was reading.
“Durn him,” growled Old Pegs, “I won’t kill him, but I’ll score his
knuckles for him.”
The rifle came up slowly, for he wished to make an accurate shot.
Slowly, slowly, the keen eyes looking through the double sights, until
the right hand of Velveteens was fully in range.
Crack!
The rifle dropped from the hand of the desperado; he uttered a wild yell
of rage and pain, and the band ran up to him in wonder to find his right
hand minus the index finger, which had been cut completely away by the
ball. Old Pegs had clapped his hand instantly over the muzzle of his
rifle, and stopped the vent, so that the smoke could not betray his
presence, and without waiting to note more than that his bullet had
reached the mark, plunged into the mountain defiles at the top of his
speed, and, short and crooked as his legs were, that speed was something
wonderful. He got over the ground at a pace which would have shamed a
first-class pedestrian, taking paths which were known to but few in the
mountains, over a stony way which left no trail. In the mean time,
Velveteens, wild with passion, was giving vent to a series of atrocious
oaths which would have disgraced a Thames barger in his most furious
moods.
“Only one man in the kentry could do it,” screamed the injured man, “and
that man is Old Pegs. What d’ye stand gauping at me fur, you skunks of
misery? Git up thar, half a hundred of ye, and chase the old thief to
his hole. I’ll give a hundred dollars to the man, white or red, that
brings me his scalp.”
There were men in the party to whom a hundred dollars was ample payment
for taking a human life, and in the twinkling of an eye a score of swift
runners were on the track of Old Pegs.
“See here,” said one of the ruffians, “we mout ez well chase the wind.
Let’s you and I git hosses and go round to his place and meet him.”
The plan pleased all, and rapidly descending the slope, four of the most
desperate villains in the party mounted and rode away at a rapid trot by
the shortest roads they knew, to reach the little valley in advance of
Old Pegs, who they knew would return to it before the day was out. But
they had eight miles to go, and the route taken by Old Pegs was only
four; and when the men rode into the valley they were surprised to see
the old hunter before them, running rapidly toward the house. Two or
three shots were fired without effect, and Old Pegs disappeared behind
the bushes. Dave Farrell heard the shots and darted out, rifle in hand,
meeting his friend at the doorway.
“Only four of the cusses, Dave,” he said, contemptuously. “We ain’t
going to run from sech ez they.”
“Not if we know it,” replied the young man, fitting a cap on his rifle
with great care. “You take the man on the right as they come in sight,
and I’ll see after the one on the left. Then get cover and load.”
The horsemen came on at a mad gallop, for they seemed to have Old Pegs
in a trap. But, rounding the point of the thicket, they found themselves
looking into the muzzles of two deadly rifles, and before they could
even check the headlong speed of their horses, two saddles were empty
and the borderers had disappeared behind the bushes. Their own rifles
were empty, for they had fired at Old Pegs, and had not since loaded,
but there was no time to stop and turn.
“Forward!” cried one of the men. “We are man to man.”
Seeing that they did not attempt to use their rifles, and knowing by
this that the weapons were empty, Old Pegs stepped out into the open
space and cried “halt!” The command enforced by the leveled revolvers
was too much for the two men, and they pulled their horses to a halt.
“Git down!” was the next command. “Throw up.”
This brief speech meant that they were not only to halt, but to raise
their hands above their heads. The men obeyed without demur, for, though
the tone of the old hunter was quiet, they felt that it meant business
and acted accordingly.
“Come hyar.”
The two ruffians marched up to the muzzles of the revolvers, each face
showing that they felt the tenure of life to be precarious in a high
degree. Dave Farrell came forward and took away the weapons of the two
men, and bound them hand and foot, while Old Pegs overlooked the work
with a cocked revolver in his hand.
“Now don’t you seem ter be a couple of low-lived galloots, you two?”
growled the hunter, “don’t you seem mean ez pizen?”
They looked it certainly, and stood with downcast eyes, evidently
uncertain what their fate was to be.
“You come hyar ter kill me—kill Old Pegs, a man thet hez tramped these
hills for thirty year, man and boy. Didn’t you, now? String ’em up ter
thet bush, Dave; we’ll make it hot fur ’em.”
The two scoundrels were stripped to the skin, and some stout switches
cut, with which the ruffians were belabored until they roared for mercy.
This border vengeance being accomplished, they were tied on their horses
with the face to the tail, and led to the mouth of the ravine.
“You got off mighty easy this time gents,” said Old Pegs. “I’m mighty
’shamed ter let you go so easy, but don’t come ag’in. You don’t want any
more off me, do you?”
“No,” replied one of the men sincerely. “I’ve got enough.”
“Well, we kin keep yer weepons to remember you by, and we’ve give you
suthing to make us dear to you. Who sent you arter me?”
“Velveteens.”
“Did he know who shot at him?”
“You bet.”
“Giv’ him my love, and say I’ll meet him some day and squar’ accounts.
Now git.”
A cut from the switches upon the flanks of each horse, sent them
thundering down the ravine, bobbing about in a grotesque manner, to the
intense amusement of the two hunters, who watched them laughingly, until
they turned an angle in the pass and were lost to view.
CHAPTER VII.
CATCHING A TARTAR.
A week passed by, and nothing more was heard of the band who had made
their camp in the valley which Old Pegs had reached upon the day when he
tried his skill upon Velveteens. They had decamped suddenly, and where
they had gone and what they meant to do was still a subject of debate.
Old Pegs did not give up his caution, and never entered the passes
without first satisfying himself that they did not conceal an enemy.
But, as day after day passed, and nothing suspicious occurred, he began
to think that all was safe.
“Tell you what it is, Dave,” he said. “You seem to hev forgotten thet
thar is sech a thing ez a trapping-brigade in the world; by gracious,
yes.”
Dave looked a little disconcerted; for, to tell the truth, he had not
been able to break away from Myrtle, who seemed more beautiful day by
day.
“I—I did not like to go away while there was danger,” he stammered.
“Jess so; but that bird won’t fight no longer, and I guess you’d better
go down and see the boys. I don’t keer ef I go with you.”
“And leave Myrtle alone?”
“She knows what ter do ef any one comes,” replied Old Pegs. “Don’t you,
gal?”
“I am not afraid,” was the reply. “Besides, I don’t think that we shall
be troubled any more.”
“Perhaps not, but it is best to be on the safe side. Keep a bright
look-out, and if you see any one, let them find an empty house.”
“I will keep my carbine handy, too,” replied the spirited girl. “But,
father is right, Dave; you have a duty to perform, and have no right to
leave it for me. I like to have you attend to the work which is given
you to do.”
Old Pegs prudently departed, and the lips of the lovers met in a long,
clinging kiss. Then she pushed him away with a hightened color, and
watched them as they passed out of the valley, leaving her alone. She
missed the tame bear greatly, for, in her solitary hours she had derived
much amusement from his antics. The day passed slowly, although much of
it was spent in study. After dinner she look her carbine—a weapon with
the use of which she was familiar—and leaving the house went up the
mountain in pursuit of game. An antelope was not long in presenting
itself, and quickly fell before her unerring aim. Loading again she was
engaged in putting on a cap, when two men suddenly started up in the
sage-bush beside her, in the foremost of whom she recognized
Velveteens—his hand bound up in a bloody cloth. The other was an Indian
in the dress of the Modoc Sioux.
“Hyar’s luck, Anatole!” bawled Velveteens. “Little gal, how ar’ ye?”
“None the better for meeting you,” she replied, with her hand still upon
the lock of the carbine, which she cocked by a quick movement. “What do
you want?”
“Nothin’, nothin’, gal; only we’d like to hev ye take a walk with us.
Thar’s a young man in our camp lit’rally spilin’ to see ye.”
“I am afraid he will ‘spile’ altogether, then,” she answered, “for I am
not going with you.”
“Ho, ho, ho! jest hear her, Anatole! Ain’t she a bu’ster and no mistake?
I’ll back that gal,” he continued in a tone of great admiration,
“ag’inst any gal in these hyar foot-hills—ag’in the world! But, ye’ve
got to go, little gal; we kain’t git along without ye.”
“You will be obliged to do so, let me tell you,” she answered, in the
same undaunted tone. “I am not going with you, at any rate.”
“Ketch hold ov her, Anatole!” replied Velveteens. “I’d do it myself but
my hand ain’t railly well yit.”
The Indian made a step in advance but halted quickly as Myrtle lifted
the carbine and pointed it at his naked breast. There was a look in her
face which he did not like and which puzzled him for he had seldom met a
white girl who could use a rifle.
“What ar’ ye doin’ girl?” roared Velveteens. “P’int thet thing another
way; it mout go off an’ hurt the Injun.”
“It _will_ go off if he takes another step,” she answered, in the same
cool tone she had used throughout. “I do not intend to become your
prisoner.”
The face of the Indian turned to a sickly white, for he saw death in the
eyes of this brave young girl. Velveteens was startled, too, and began
to think that it might not be so easy to capture her as he had imagined.
“Take keer!” he cried. “Ef ye hurt the Injun b’ar in mind that I am hyar
and kin make ye trouble. Jump at her, Anatole; she kain’t hit ye.”
The Indian made a leap and instantly fell, shot through the shoulder.
The ball had no sooner left the barrel than Velveteens bounded forward
with a panther-like spring, but stopped in dismay as he met the shining
barrel of a cocked revolver pointed at his head.
“Back!” she cried, sternly; “fall back, I say! I would not have your
blood upon my hands, but for my honor’s sake I would kill a hundred such
men and think I had done the world good service. Put up your hands! If
you try to draw a weapon I will kill you. Up; higher still!”
The ruffian hesitated, but, as she was about to fire, he raised his
hands quickly at their full stretch and she advanced with the revolver
pointed at his heart and her finger on the trigger and took his
revolvers from his belt and dropped them on the sod. His knife and
hatchet followed and she stepped back a little, still transfixing him
with her eyes.
“Fall back a little,” she said.
“But, Miss—”
“Fall back! I will not bid you three times before I fire.”
He stepped back about six paces, when she again called him to a halt and
advancing, picked up the weapons he had dropped and hurled them down a
deep ravine close at hand. The weapons of the Indian followed, rifle and
all, and the two were weaponless and at the mercy of a girl.
“You have made a slight mistake in the character of the woman with whom
you are dealing, my good sir,” she said. “Send that Indian away; he is
not so badly wounded but he can walk.”
“What ar’ ye goin’ to do?”
“Obey my orders; I am not here to answer questions.”
“You kin go back to camp, Anatole,” said Velveteens, “but don’t you say
any thing about this yer or I’ll kill ye when I come back; now ye hear
me.”
The Indian staggered to his feet and hurried away down the mountain
path.
“I won’t forgit this yer, gal,” said Velveteens, in a tone of deadly
menace, “you may be right sure of that.”
“I don’t mean that you shall, sir,” she answered, calmly. “There is the
antelope I have killed which I wish to have carried home. Pick it up and
go in front.”
“Do you think I’m a pack-mule?” he roared, angrily.
“Your ears are long enough and your skull does not want in thickness,
but it is not proof against a bullet, as you will find if you do not
obey me at once,” was the answer. “Do not waste any time, sir, I have
none to lose.”
Groaning in spirit but seeing no way out of his dilemma, the scoundrel
picked up the carcass of the antelope and led the way down the hill,
while Myrtle followed closely, holding her revolver ready. Once or twice
he was tempted to drop his load and take the chances of a bullet, but
when he remembered the fall of Anatole he dared not attempt it. Yet his
pride as a mountaineer was touched to the quick, and he treasured up the
malice of his heart.
“I’ll git even with you yit, my gal,” he thought. “Who’d hev thought
she’d turn on a man with shootin’-irons? Thunder! I dassent show my head
in camp ef this yer is found out.”
It was nearly an hour’s walk to the cabin, but she would neither suffer
him to pause nor lay down his load. At last they went down the path into
the valley and he dropped his burden at the door.
“Thanks,” she said. “I was afraid I should be obliged to leave the
greater part of my game on the mountain, but you happened along so
luckily that I am delighted. Does it occur to you at this moment, Mr.
Velveteens, that you are most beautifully sold?”
“You’ve got the whip hand, now, I reckon,” was the answer; “but that
won’t always last. One of these yer days _my_ chaince may come, an’ when
it does no one, not even Rafe, shill stop me when I want my revenge.”
“I am not yet satisfied that I shall let you go,” she answered. “You
came here under false colors, and betrayed those who thought that they
were giving you aid in time of need while you were only studying a way
to effect the release of Rafe Norris.”
“He’s my pard,” was the reply. “You wouldn’t ask a man to go back on his
pard, would ye?”
“No; I can not blame you so much for that but you did a wicked and cruel
act when you poisoned my pet bear.”
“Who sez I did?”
“No matter; you did the deed, for your face betrays you. Why should I
not keep you here until my father returns, to meet his vengeance?”
“He’s marked me fur life,” replied Velveteens, holding up his maimed
hand. “Ain’t that enough?”
“If I let you go, your first act will be to study new wrongs. I am
afraid I must keep you a prisoner.”
“Don’t do it, gal,” he pleaded, eagerly. “I must go back; I’m ruined
forever ef I don’t, ye see—and I’ll promise any thing—any thing, ef
ye’ll only let me go.”
“And you would break your promise as readily as it is made,” she
answered. “I do not know what to do in your case.”
“See thar, gal; yender comes Whirlwind and his gang. Oh, let me git off
fur he’ll take my scalp, sure.”
“Away with you, then; save yourself if you can, but never let me see
your face again.”
He sprung away eagerly and began to clamber up the mountain rapidly, for
Whirlwind and two of his chief warriors were already in view. Myrtle did
not attempt to fly, but waited calmly the approach of the chief, who
dismounted and came forward, starting back in surprise at her great
beauty.
“Short Legs’ squaw, eh?” he said, in broken English. “No ’fraid of
Whirlwind; he good friend to Short Legs and Beaver Captain.”
“I am not afraid of the great Blackfoot chief,” replied Myrtle, who had
been told what to do in case Whirlwind came. “My father has left a
message for him.”
“Good; Whirlwind will read it.”
She went into the cabin and came out with two pieces of bark inscribed
with strange hieroglyphics. The chief looked at them intently and seemed
to understand them.
“It is good; tell Short Legs that Whirlwind will meet him at the place
with many braves. Who is the man who goes up mountain; friend, eh?”
Myrtle hesitated, for, bad and cruel as she knew Velveteens to be, she
could not find it in her heart to expose him to the tender mercies of
the Blackfoot chief. Yet, she did not wish to lie to him, for that was a
crime which he would never forgive. She did the best thing under the
circumstances—told the truth.
“He _was_ my prisoner, but I have given him liberty, and allowed him to
go.”
“Brave man, eh!” said the chief, contemptuously. “Girl take him?”
“If the Blackfeet know a brave of the Sioux who is called Anatole, _he_
can tell whether he is a brave man or not.”
“Anatole is a dog; but, he is brave,” replied the chief.
“Anatole and this man would have made me a prisoner. I shot the Sioux
and took this man prisoner, and made him carry the deer from the
mountain.”
“Good!” said the chief, briefly. “Can the white girl shoot straight?”
“I will show you,” replied Myrtle, not in the spirit of bravado but
because of the effect it might have upon the Indians if they should
become enemies again. “Does Whirlwind see the bird on the bush?” she
pointed to a wood thrush, nearly ninety yards distant.
“Whirlwind sees.”
She stepped to the front and lifted the carbine, which was one of the
best make, or was, rather, a short rifle. She felt that it was necessary
to make a good shot after what had been said and was very careful.
Indians as a rule are not good marksmen, and none of the warriors had
any idea that she would hit the bird, but to their utter surprise it
fell at the crack of the rifle and one of the warriors scurried away to
pick up the game. Throwing himself out of the saddle hanging by one
foot, he swooped up the dead bird and brought it in. The head had been
severed from the neck as neatly as if it had been done by a knife.
“My daughter can shoot,” said the chief. “I believe that she shot
Anatole and took the white man prisoner. A brave warrior must make the
white girl his wife.”
He said no more, but calling to his men they rode away rapidly, leaving
the girl alone. It might have been an hour later when Old Pegs came into
the valley.
“I’ve seen the brigade and they ar’ having trouble,” he said. “They’ve
hed four men killed this week by the cussid Sioux.”
“What do they want, father?” said Myrtle. “Why should they seek to drive
our men away?”
Old Pegs explained, and it is well to give the substance of his remarks
to explain the feeling which existed between the men of the “Hudson Bay
Company” and the “North-west.” It was simply a question of boundaries.
The Northern Company claimed the right to send their trapping parties
where they pleased, and the North-West disputed that claim. The parties
which came out this season of the year were not trapping but
“prospecting,” in order to know the best places for trapping in the
coming winter.
Both sides had men to whom fighting was a pastime, and it was known that
they would shed blood sooner than suffer a rival to encroach upon their
trapping-grounds. “The brigade” of which Dave Farrell was captain was
composed of men who were the pick and flower of the mountaineers, and
who came out with the expectation of fighting. Perhaps they exceeded
their instructions, sometimes, for they were not likely to study the
boundaries very closely, and good trapping-ground whether north or south
of the line was, to use a border expression, “their meat.”
It would be bootless to tell all that Old Pegs said and did when Myrtle
told him what had happened since his departure. He raved, stamped, and
launched all manner of invectives at the unlucky Velveteens.
“No buddy but a gal would hev let the cuss go,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t
you keep him until Whirlwind came?”
“Father! could I do that? Bad as he is I could not give him up to Indian
vengeance.”
“I don’t know but yer right, Myrtle. You’ve got a tender heart even fur
the meanest skunk on the face of the creatid ’arth, and thet’s this same
Velveteens. But, don’t you hunt any more till we’ve cleaned out this
truck. Keep out ov sight. Don’t show yourself even to the Blackfoot,
’cause he mout turn ag’in’ us. Let’s fodder up; I’m gitting mighty
hungry.”
Myrtle went into the cabin and prepared a meal and the two sat down to
eat. When they had finished they were startled by the rattle of firearms
away in the east. “Ther at it,” cried Old Pegs. “I’ve got ter take a
hand.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A BORDER BATTLE.
The “brigade” had hailed with pleasure the return of their captain, for
they had been in trouble. Men who had wandered away from the camp had
been seen no more, until their lifeless bodies were found in some dark
ravine, or on the prairie, scalped and gory. Fate seemed to be against
them, and nothing they could do to detect the murderers was of any
avail. The brow of the Beaver Captain clouded as he heard the names of
those who had fallen, four or five of his best men.
“This won’t do, boys,” he said. “Where is Boston Dick?”
“Dead!” replied one of the men. “Shot down and skulped up in the North
gulch.”
“Is Reddy here?” demanded the captain, with a sort of groan.
“Reddy’s handed in his checks, too,” replied the same man. “Tell you
what it is, Cap, the boys’ll spile ef they don’t git a chance at them
cusses mighty soon.”
“They shall have a chance,” was the stern reply. “I’ll teach the
cowardly hounds what it is to murder my men in cold blood. Where is
Massy?”
“Right side up, Cap,” replied the man called Massy, a light, active
borderer in buck-skins and beaver cap. “What can I do?”
“I want a trailer—one who will track these dogs to their den. Will you
do it?”
“I kin try, Cap; but ef I go under, jest send word to my wife that I did
my duty, and git my pay fur her. Kin I take out Pat Dada with me?”
“Just as you like. Have you got fresh sign to follow anywhere?”
“Yes; I’ve got the trail they left when Boston Dick went under, last
night.”
“That’s enough; now boys, listen to me. There must be no straggling
until we find out where these fellows hive. They think to drive us out
of the Indian country, but if they do they must fight for it. What do
you say?”
A ringing cheer was the only reply, and the men broke up into knots,
canvassing the chances of meeting with the murderers soon. The brigade
altogether numbered about seventy men, far less in number than the band
of Velveteens, but every man was a dead shot, brave as a lion, and knew
the country by heart. Like all trapper bands they were composed of a
sprinkling of all nationalities—chiefly, however, of American birth.
From the gray-haired mountaineer of sixty years to beardless boys
scarcely twenty, but upon whose youthful faces the wild life of the
border had set its mark. Massy and Pat Dada stole out of the camp, and
as night came on Dave set his guards and took precautions which the
others had neglected, and which had resulted so fatally. He felt
tolerable certain that the calamities which had fallen upon them could
be laid only to the blame of Velveteens and Rafe Norris, but was not
sure.
Scarcely had the sun gone down, when the moon rolled up in the sky and
shed a mellow radiance on the scene. Dave made the circuit of the
pickets about the edge of the strip of timber in which the camp was
made, when he noticed, out upon the plain, a sort of wavering which
rested on the grass and seemed to move slowly up. These black spots
whatever they were puzzled him extremely, and he called the attention of
the guard to them.
“I’ve hed my eye on those spots for the last ten minnits,” replied the
man, “and I’ll be cussed if I can make ’em out. What was that?”
Both had caught the gleam of some metallic substance in the moonlight.
Dave uttered a low exclamation, and caught the guard by the arm.
“There they come, by heaven! Stand firm now, and don’t fire unless they
make a rush.”
Dave was right, for those dark shadows creeping up so slowly were the
forms of their enemies gathering for a rush upon the camp. They were
crawling along the short prairie grass, shading themselves as much as
possible behind the hummocks, and getting as near as was safe to the
line of woods before the rush was made. Velveteens was there, crouching
upon the sod, and nursing in his heart the most bitter hatred of all who
were dear to Myrtle. There, too, crouched the two men who had been
flogged by the borderers, crouching like tigers ready for the spring,
each man with a rifle in his grasp and his revolvers in the belt. Mixed
with these were their red allies, the Modoc Sioux, eager for scalps, and
caring but little from whom those scalps were taken. It seemed
impossible that the trappers could withstand the rush of this powerful
body.
Hark! They are gathering for the rush now, and weapons are tightly
grasped as the whispered word of command goes down the line. The signal
will be a shot from a rifle, and Velveteens is to give it. Rising slowly
to his knees, he brought the deadly rifle to his shoulder, and pointed
it at the motionless form of the guard who was talking with Dave
Farrell, but, as the rifle came to a level, the man glided suddenly
behind a tree, and Velveteens lowered the weapon in surprise.
“Lucky fur ye, my man,” he muttered. “Thar; come on!”
The rifle cracked, and the bullet was buried in the tree behind which
the guard was stationed, and the band rushed forward like leaping
grayhounds. But, the rifle-shot seemed to be a signal to the others, and
the whole front of the strip of woods is in a blaze, so rapid is the
discharge of rifles about it. The trappers have not been caught napping,
and the tables are turned upon the assailants who go down, man by man,
fearfully decimated by the deadly fire. Prairie men do not waste
bullets. They take deadly aim, and generally speaking the man drops at
whom the ball is sped, and when the band of outlaws reached the woods,
nearly one third of their number were beyond the reach of human aid.
They stood in the moonlight, exposed to that dreadful fire, while the
trappers were covered by trees. No wonder the British crew were rent
asunder as if by an earthquake, and scattered both ways, leaving the
front of the trappers clear.
“Whoop!” yelled one of the hunters. “Give ’em Hail Columby, boys, and
durn the odds.”
Half a dozen men leaped out to follow the discomfited assailants,
unheeding the stern orders of Dave Farrell. They had scarcely showed
themselves when four of them went down, for, although so many had
fallen, the enemy was not yet beaten, but had paused for breath before a
new attack, shuttered by the band in the timber on either flank.
“Spread out there on the left and cover the corral,” cried Dave.
“They’ll stampede the horses next.”
The order did not come too soon, for the party who moved to the left in
obedience found themselves face to face with forty or fifty Indians
creeping up toward the corral. A hand-to-hand struggle began, and as
both sides were reinforced, a battle royal began between the corral and
the prairie. In these wood battles the hand and eye must be trained to
take in every incident and change in the scene, for it is impossible to
say from what point a blow may come. The weapons are deadly, the
revolver, knife and hatchet playing the principal part. Neither party
would give way an inch now, and it was impossible to say who would
conquer, when a shrill, peculiar whistle was heard high above the
tumult. Instantly the assailants gave way, and were seen scattered about
the prairie in headlong flight, leaving their dead and wounded gasping
upon the sod. The trappers would have followed, but Dave would not
permit it.
“Enough has been done, boys,” he cried. “We have given them a lesson
which they will not soon forget, and I doubt if they will try their
powers on us again. But, what made them give up so suddenly? They seemed
to be holding us well when they broke away.”
“It was nip and tuck,” replied one of the men. “Durned ef I understand
it.”
“I heerd a whistle,” replied another. “Thet’s all I know about it, and
they quit on that.”
“I heard the signal too,” said Dave. “Two or three of you fellows run
out and see what they are doing.”
Volunteers were plenty, and picking their way carefully through the dead
and dying, they saw that the marauders were already in the saddle and
headed for the foot-hills. The horse-guards had kept the animals well
together, and they were not impeded in their flight. But, hardly had
they disappeared when the scouts saw another line of horsemen streaming
out from a distant pass, heading toward the timber, and they came back
to report.
“A large force, boys?” demanded Dave.
“Nigh a hunderd, Cap.”
“Load up again, boys,” said the Beaver Captain, “for we may have another
tussle. Keep out of sight, and let every bullet find a mark. Be steady.”
Just issued from a fierce struggle, and while some of their friends lay
dead at their feet, these men cheerfully prepared for a new battle. The
long line of horsemen came on in Indian fashion, until about three
hundred yards from the timber, when they halted, and two men rode out
toward the camp, evidently with peaceful intent. As they came nearer,
Dave recognized Old Pegs and Whirlwind.
“It’s all right, boys,” he cried; “lay down your guns and get torches.
Some of our poor fellows need our aid.”
While the men were making preparations he slipped out to meet the
new-comers.
“Don’t tell me I ain’t in time, Dave,” growled Old Pegs, “acause I’d be
like enuff ter hit ye. Them cusses bin at you, eh?”
“They gave us a benefit, just now. If you want fun, Whirlwind, you may
overtake them before they get very deep into the foot-hills.”
“Which way?” cried Whirlwind, his nostrils dilating. “Whirlwind will
go.”
“Set some scouts on them if you can’t bring them to a fight, for we want
to know where they go. The country has got to be cleared of this scum,
somehow.”
Whirlwind made no reply, but calling to his men they went off like the
wind in the direction taken by the outlaws. Old Pegs looked after them
wistfully.
“I’d like ter go with ’em, Dave, only if they ketch them critters I’m
afraid Whirlwind will find himself in the position of the man that
caught the Tartar. Lost some of yer boys?”
“Yes, too many, I am afraid,” replied Dave. “Let us join them and see
what the loss really is.”
A careful search revealed the fact that five of his men had been killed
and twice that number wounded. Of the assailants twelve were killed and
five mortally wounded left upon the ground. The burial service was
brief, each rough man bidding good-by to his friend in his rough way as
they were laid beneath the sod, friend and foe together in a trench
which was hastily thrown up by the men, who knew their duty well.
“Whirlwind has caught his Tartar, I reckon,” said Dave, as the sound of
rifles came up on the wind. “What a dressing those fellows will give the
Blackfeet!”
The firing receded, growing fainter and fainter in the distance, and
they began to think that the Blackfeet were driving the enemy before
them.
“Dave,” said Old Pegs, “I’ve bin thinking ’bout my gal and made up my
mind. I’d hate to lose her but I won’t keep her here no more and she’s
got ter go to the fort.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Dave, eagerly. “What made you
come to that conclusion?”
Old Pegs related the adventure with Velveteens and Anatole.
“And you see, boy, this yer mout happen any day. Now give me ten men and
I’ll go up to-morrow and git her and we’ll send her home with the
brigade.”
The plan suited Dave well, and early next morning the old hunter with
ten men rode up to his cabin home, searching every pass before they
entered it. The ride was a long one and it was ten o’clock when Old Pegs
dismounted at his door and went in.
The room was empty, but that did not seem to trouble him, for, after
calling Myrtle’s name once or twice, he pushed aside the curtains of the
recess in which she slept and went in. A sort of clicking sound was
heard directly after, and he was not seen for ten minutes, when the
noise was again repeated and he sprung out into the empty room with a
wild look on his face.
“She’s gone!” he screamed. “Who hez robbed me of my child?”
“Hyar’s a bit of paper, old man,” said one of the trappers. “We found it
on a split stick near the door.”
Old Pegs cast it from him with a roar of anger.
“D’ye think I kin read now? Whar’s Myrtle; thet’s what I want ter know.”
“I can read,” said one of the scouts, picking up the paper. “Shall I,
old man?”
Old Pegs nodded with a savage look on his face, and the young man read
the paper.
“This is to certify, that having come to the conclusion that the man
known as Old Pegs is not lawfully the guardian of his lovely
daughter—so called—therefore I, Rafe Norris, assume the guardianship,
with the intention of making her my wife.
Rafe Norris.”
The old man took up the letter and looked at it grimly. “I’ll wad it
round a bullet, one day,” he muttered. “God help him, when we meet
ag’in. He’ll git this paper back.”
CHAPTER IX.
UNBIDDEN GUESTS.
We left Myrtle in the cabin when her father rushed out as the crack of
rifles announced the attack on the camp of the brigade. She felt no fear
at being left alone, but closing the doors she read for some hours in
her book and then retired for the night. She was up early, for the
scoundrels might pass the cabin on their return and she was always on
her guard. Stealing out while it was yet dusk, with her rifle ready, she
spent an hour in scouting and satisfied herself that no one was lurking
about. Returning to the cabin she laid her rifle and revolvers on a
bench by the door and went down to the spring after a bucket of water.
For half an hour she dallied there by the spring. Then taking up the
bucket she returned to the cabin and was putting the bucket on its bench
when she heard a voice say:
“Good-morning, my dear; you look like an angel—you really do.”
She uttered a low cry and looked for a weapon, for there, just within
the door and leaning against the post, stood Rafe Norris, with a
provoking smile upon his face.
“You are looking for a weapon,” he said, quietly, “and I have no doubt
would use it on me as readily as you did on Anatole. I have the truth of
that story now.”
“Why are you here?” she gasped. “What do you seek?”
“Revenge!” he hissed. “My band has been scattered, beaten, trampled
under foot by these thrice-accursed trappers. My men have been butchered
in this very valley by your so-called father and Dave Farrell, and those
who were spared suffered the ignominy of the lash at their hands. I
myself have been disgraced by bonds.”
“Let me pass,” said Myrtle. “I will not stay to bandy words with you.”
“Listen to me, my girl,” cried Rafe Norris, sternly. “If you leave this
house alive you leave it as my prisoner. I am determined to punish these
two men, and I can think of no better way to do so than by taking you
with me. I shall act fairly with you, and at the first station we reach
you shall be my wife, for I cannot live without you.”
“Let me pass,” she repeated, trying to force her way by him, with the
design of reaching her carbine, which lay on the bench outside. “I will
not stay here to be insulted.”
“I am afraid you will have to stay until I give you leave to pass, my
girl,” replied Norris, pushing her back. “Do you think I do not know
that if you reached the carbine my life is not worth a moment’s
purchase? I honor your spirit, but you meet a man whose will is stronger
than your own.”
Myrtle sunk back on a stool and looked at him steadily. There was
something in her dark eyes which did not bode well for him if she
reached a weapon, and he laughed aloud.
“You little tiger-cat,” he said. “What would you give for a pistol,
now?”
“I only wish I had one,” she gasped, clenching her hands hard.
“Here is one,” he said, drawing the weapon from his belt and presenting
the butt to her. “Let us see what use you will make of it.”
She grasped the revolver with eager fingers, and quick as thought
pointed it at his breast and pulled the trigger. The cap snapped but
there was not a cartridge in the chambers and he laughed until the cabin
rung again.
“You would do it, my fine girl,” he said. “There; drop it—the weapon is
not loaded, and I should be a fool to trust myself in your hands.”
He had made a mistake in giving her any weapon. Throwing her hand back,
she hurled the heavy revolver at his head, and it struck him fairly
between the eyes, and for a moment he reeled blindly to and fro,
half-stunned by the sudden and terrible blow. This was the moment for
Myrtle, and darting past him she caught up her carbine and cocked it
quickly. By the time he had somewhat recovered from the blow, he saw her
standing armed and ready, the carbine pointed at his heart.
“There is a load in _this_ weapon, Mr. Rafe Norris,” she said with a
merry laugh. “The tables are turned, I think. Take care! If you have any
desire to live, do not dare to move hand or foot.”
The tables were turned indeed, and by his own folly. He had not dreamed
that this weak girl could so suddenly become the assailant, and he
staggered back, still weak and confused, looking at her with a wild,
questioning stare.
“You dare not fire,” he hissed. “Down with the carbine, girl.”
“Dare not! You do not know what a woman will dare for her honor which is
dearer to her than life.”
The base man saw that he was conquered, and that the eyes which flashed
along the tube of the carbine were lurid with a baleful light. He had
laughed at Velveteens when the story of his capture and escape was made
known, and now he was in the same quandary.
“Shoot,” he said, fiercely. “I will not turn in my tracks to save my
life, and am ready to die. Why do you hesitate?”
“I do not seek your life, Rafe Norris,” replied Myrtle. “I only protect
myself from wrong, and that I will do, no matter what happens. If you
had taken me to your camp I would have killed you with the first weapon
I could reach.”
“I would have risked that,” was the reply. “But enough of this. I am
conquered, and wish to know what you require of me.”
“You have come back voluntarily, and you must remain a prisoner. Go into
that room behind you.”
“I will not.”
“Go in; it is the only way to save your life.”
At this moment the light of hope came into the eye of Rafe Norris. He
had seen something which boded well for him.
“It is foolish to throw my life away,” he said, quietly. “Since you
insist upon it and will take my life if I refuse, I will go as your
prisoner. I could not ask for a fairer jailer.”
“Go in there; I have no time to waste in idle words.”
He retreated slowly, still facing her, and speaking in the same careless
tone which he had assumed lately.
“I never thought, my dear girl, that I should ever become your prisoner
in this particular way. I did hope that at some time you would hold me
in a willing and sweeter bondage, the bondage of those who love and are
beloved again. I have not yet given up hope.”
“You will force me to fire at you yet,” she said, raising the carbine a
little.
“Don’t do it, my sweet; I don’t like it and it would be foolish to shed
the blood of one who loves you to the confines of desperation. In fact,
I yet indulge the hope that—hurrah!”
Myrtle suddenly felt herself seized from behind, and inclosed in a
strong grasp, while the carbine was thrown into the air and went off
without injury to any one. Slightly turning her head she saw the
leering, evil face of the man called Velveteens close to hers.
“Ha, ha, ha, Rafe! You got it this time! The little cuss is pizen—pizen
of the cussidest kind, ain’t she?”
The man had crept up while she was engaged in parley with Norris, and
seized her before she could turn. It was vain to struggle and Myrtle
allowed the carbine to be taken from her hand without a word of
objection.
“Order your man Friday to take his hands off me,” she said. “I am not
used to such treatment as this.”
“You desarve wuss,” hissed Velveteens. “See yer, Rafe, ye’d better give
her to me, an’ ef I don’t tame her then my hand is out, that’s all.”
“Be quiet, Velveteens,” was the reply. “This girl is mine and I mean to
make her my wife, so beware what you say or do. If I order the man to
release you, will you promise not to get a weapon?”
“Yes,” replied Myrtle. “I won’t try to kill you again _to-day_, but I
may to-morrow. What unmanly scoundrels you must be when it takes two of
you to conquer one weak girl.”
“A weak gal shoots mighty clust, an’ throws pistols bully,” said
Velveteens, releasing her at a sign from Norris, but remaining between
her and the door.
“I am somewhat like yourself, Mr. Norris,” said Myrtle, quietly. “I
yield to persuasion which I can not resist. I suppose you wish me to go
with you?”
“I have some slight wishes pointing in that direction,” replied Rafe,
mockingly.
“Then I will go. Will you allow me to get my hat, or must I go
bareheaded?”
“Where is it?”
She pointed to the curtained alcove where she slept. He opened the
curtains and looked in to satisfy himself that there was no door by
which she could escape, and stepping back made a sign to her to pass in.
She did so, and a moment later they heard a sharp, clicking, metallic
sound, followed a moment later by another.
“By the Six Devils!” screamed Velveteens, “she’s got hold of a rifle
some’rs. Didn’t ye hear her cock it?”
Both men sprung toward the recess, and drawing aside the curtains looked
in, but to their rage and dismay, Myrtle was nowhere in sight. The bed
was one of the common camp sort, which are used for their ease in
transportation. Several articles of clothing, a chair or two, and a
small table comprised all the furniture of the little place, and there
was only one window which had not been touched, yet Myrtle had
disappeared.
“Done!” said Velveteens, with an expression of supreme amazement upon
his face. “Done exceedin’ brown; I donno ez I ever see the like in all
my born days.”
Rafe Norris could not speak for passion. He ran to and fro in the little
alcove, pounded the walls, shook the bed, and searched in places where a
rat could hardly have taken refuge, with a dim idea that she _might_ be
there, while Velveteens looked on quietly.
“That gal _is_ smart, Rafe,” he said. “One time I thort ye was a durned
fool to marry anybuddy, but ef ye kin git a gal like that it’s diffrunt,
I reckon. But whar in thunder hez she gone?”
“Why don’t you help me search?” cried Rafe. “Fool that we were to let
her out of our hands for a moment.”
“It was stupid,” replied Velveteens, “but that won’t bring her back.”
They searched thoroughly everywhere but their search was vain. They were
literally left without a clue of any kind, for the little room had no
article of furniture which would have furnished a hiding-place for a
rabbit.
“It looks almost like a supernatural act,” muttered Rafe below his
breath. “Where _can_ she have gone? I’ve a good mind to set fire to the
cabin and take the chances of finding her.”
“Let’s do it,” said Velveteens, eagerly.
“I believe you would, old fellow,” said Rafe, laughing. “You don’t seem
to care much whether you kill or cure—but remember thet I _love_ the
girl.”
“Love! oh, yes; that’s a nice word for Rafe Norris to speak. But, it
won’t do to set a light to ther cabin fur that would bring the ‘brigade’
on us, right smart. We’ve got ter git out’n this place anyhow, before
Old Pegs comes back. He’d make it hotter than hotness fur us.”
“I only wish he would come back,” replied Rafe, grating his teeth.
“Curse him, he has been the cause of all our trouble. Now we won’t be
able to get those Indians into a square fight again, this season. They
were whipped too bad, curse the luck.”
As he spoke he gave the bed a kick. A clicking sound was heard and the
floor seemed to rise beneath their feet, disclosing a cavity about four
feet square and a flight of steps leading downward. “Hurrah!” cried
Rafe. “We’ve got her after all. In with you!”
Velveteens sprung down the steps and ran through a narrow passage into a
little cave scooped out of the solid earth where Myrtle stood with a
rifle in her hand. She was again brought to bay.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE TRAIL. A TREACHEROUS ACT.
“Boys,” said Old Pegs, “they’ve got her, de’d or alive, and we’ve got to
find out which—to resker her ef she’s alive and to revenge her ef she’s
dead. Duz thet kind ov tork please you?”
The men did not speak, but he read in their eyes that they would be with
him to the death. He beckoned them to follow, and entered the cabin,
tearing down the curtain which concealed the recess in which Myrtle had
slept. He caught hold of the bed and gave it a swing, and, turning as if
upon a pivot it showed the opening and the steps leading downward.
“Two or three of you come with me,” said Old Pegs. “I don’t want too
many; they’ll spile the trail.”
They ran down the steps and entered the little passage which led to the
cave. The place was dark, but Old Pegs took a taper from the wall and
lighted it.
“I called her and she didn’t answer so I didn’t stay to light up,” he
said. “Let’s see what all this amounts to.”
The moment the taper was lighted the men uttered cries of surprise, for
there, close against the wall, lay the man called Velveteens, bathed in
blood.
“I’ll bet a thousand dollars the gal killed him,” cried Old Pegs, as he
turned the villain over on his back. “Thar’s the mark of her bullet,
but—thunder! He’s got a knife in his breast.”
It was true. A long knife had pierced the bosom of Velveteens, just
above the collar-bone, and slanting downward. The hand which planted
that knife knew how to direct a fatal blow. The rifle-ball had pierced
him through the neck but such a wound was not necessarily fatal, and the
knife had finished the bloody work.
“The gal never done that,” said one of the men. “Seems ter me thar’s
life in the low cuss, old man.”
“Giv’ us yer flask, then. Whisky’ll bring this critter out of his grave
a’most. He don’t desarve it but I want ter question him a bit before he
goes under.”
The man handed over the flask, and Old Pegs bathed the lips of the
wounded wretch with the strong liquor, and raising his head managed to
get a little down his throat. A moment after he gave a gasp and his eyes
flared open, gazing with a wild look upon the faces bent above him.
“Whar am I?” he gasped. “Oh, I know now; I’ve got my gruel.”
“You ain’t got long ter live, Velveteens,” said Old Pegs, “and yer mout
ez well make a clean breast of it.”
“I’ll tell,” he muttered. “Give me some more whisky—I want strength.”
A few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor gave him life and he spoke more
freely.
“Rafe Norris hez got her, curse him!”
“Whar is he?”
“Up among the foot-hills—by the Spirit Spring.”
“Ho; thet’s it, eh? Did the gal do this?”
“She shot me,” gasped the dying man, “and Rafe—thought I’d die—and
stabbed—me—the dog—let him die—a dog’s—death! Curse him, dead or alive!”
As he spoke he caught the knife by the handle and drew it from the
wound. A great gush of black blood followed, and Velveteens, the
henchman of Rafe Norris who had done his evil work for many a year was
dead.
“Tell yer what, boys,” said Old Pegs, “this man wouldn’t ’a’ died ef
he’d bin let alone. Thet shot through the neck wouldn’t ’a’ killed him
by no means, but the dirty thief hed done with him and so finished him.
Now then, lift him up and we’ll plant him outside. He ain’t going ter
stay hyar, ye know.”
They lifted the limp and bleeding form and carried it up the steps into
the open air. Little time was spent upon his burial; a shallow trench
was dug in which they laid him in his blood, and heaped the fresh earth
above him as quickly as they could.
“We’ll go back to camp,” said Old Pegs. “It’ll take all the boys ter do
this job, but they’ll do it right smart. Come on.”
They sprung into their saddles and rode back to the camp of the brigade,
and the word passed from man to man that the outlaws had taken Myrtle,
the beautiful child of the old hunter. Not a man in the brigade but had
chivalry enough in his nature to peril his life for the girl, and they
hailed with delight the order to march. Dave Farrell led them, a look of
stern determination upon his handsome face. Woe to Rafe Norris if they
met to-day!
They knew the ground well where the enemy had made a shelter, and that
it was a natural fortress, from which it would be no child’s play to
drive a party of determined men. Yet they cared not for the danger or
difficulty, but were stirred—one and all—by the impulse to save Myrtle
at whatever cost.
An hour’s march brought them to the foot-hills, at a point where the
hand of Nature had hurled the rocks together in grand confusion, piling
rock on rock, forming a grand barricade which it seemed impossible to
scale. As they approached the dark defile which formed the only entrance
to this gloomy place, Dave Farrell touched Old Pegs upon the arm.
“There is the scene of our first battle, old man,” he said. “Rafe Norris
is too old in mountain lore to leave such a place undefended. Call the
men to a halt, Jim,” he added aloud, speaking to his second in command.
He had scarcely spoken when a mounted man shot out of the dark defile,
followed by another and another, until eight horsemen, mounted admirably
and armed to the teeth, were seen to form under the rocky wall. Enemies
as they were Dave could not but admire the manner in which they fell
into line, nor doubt that they were fearless and well-trained men. No
time was wasted and no questions asked, for, as this body of brave men
began to form, the trappers spread out to left and right and opened a
telling fire upon them at the distance of three hundred yards. Massed as
they were against a wall of gray rocks, upon which their forms stood out
in bold relief, there was no such thing as missing, and their men were
dropping on every side under the murderous fire before they were ready
for the charge and the command to advance rung out. The same command
might have served for the brigade for they closed in at the same moment,
slung their rifles, drew their revolvers and charged!
An equal number of the most daring fighters, the best horsemen and best
armed must make a terrible fray, and one or the other must break soon.
It was the band of Rafe Norris which “could not stand the pressure,” and
after a bloody engagement of five minutes’ duration, during which many a
blow was given and taken and many revolvers emptied—not without effect,
the broken band of Norris reeled backward and fled for the entrance of
the ravine, with the men of the brigade upon their haunches. The deep
glen swallowed them up, when, as if by magic, the entrance to the glen
bristled with lances held by Indians, who well know how to use them,
forming an impenetrable obstacle to any further advance.
A single shout from Dave Farrell and his men broke to left and right,
one half led by Old Pegs and the other by himself, and making a circuit
they met upon the spot where the battle had commenced.
“Hot work, boys,” said Dave as he passed his hand across his heated
brow. “If it had not been for those cursed lances we would have been on
their cruppers yet, but no horsemen in the world could break through
those lances as they are posted now; but we can drive them out.”
“I’ll take the job,” said Old Pegs. “I only want ten men.”
“Take them,” cried Dave, shortly, “and when the pass is clear signal us
to advance.”
Old Pegs picked out his men and rode away at a cracking pace,
accompanied by two men to bring back the horses. In the meantime the
British force were grouped in the rear of their Indian allies, ready to
meet the attack should the enemy attempt to break through. What was
their surprise to see the trappers dismount and begin to lounge about,
just out of rifle range, making no effort to advance.
“They’ve sent for help, I reckon,” said a dark-browed, ruffianly looking
fellow who had command of the whites in the detachment who guarded the
pass. “What d’ye say, Injun?”
Injun John, who since the death of Half-breed Jack had command of the
Sioux, nodded gravely in reply.
“He has gone for Whirlwind and the Blackfeet. Wagh; the Sioux do not
fear the Blackfeet dogs.”
“That must be it,” replied the white leader, evidently puzzled, “but I
don’t know why he took twelve men with him. We might make another dash
at them, boys.”
“No you don’t!” replied one of the men. “I didn’t enlist for this sort
of work, and though I’ll go as far as any man in the interest of the
Company, I don’t feel called on to lose my scalp.”
“You’re a dreadful cautious boy, Ned,” said the leader. “So cautious
that it looks almost like cowardice.”
“I think I can _prove_ I ain’t a coward,” said the man addressed,
drawing a revolver and covering the form of his leader. “Back yer
opinion, Jim Diggs; draw iron.”
“I cave!” said Jim Diggs, waving aside the obnoxious weapon. “I didn’t
say you was a coward, but I said you was dreadful cautious—and so you
be.”
“Caution is a good thing ain’t it, Jim?” said the man, still covering
him with the deadly weapon.
“Caution is bully!” was the reply of Jim Diggs; “don’t p’int that thing
at me—it might go off.”
The man returned the weapon to his belt, satisfied with the lesson which
he had given, but certain at the same time that he would have to answer
for the act at some future day. The Indians looked calmly on, expecting
a fray, and were rather disappointed when they saw Jim Diggs bottle up
his wrath and say no more.
The position they occupied was a strange one. The pass was not more than
twenty paces wide, bordered by perpendicular rocks twenty feet high
without lateral passes on either side. No movement was made by the
trappers, and their enemies did not care for another close grapple by
daylight. An hour of inaction passed, and the ruffians began to gather
courage and talk of another attack.
“Say,” cried a voice overhead. “Won’t you please go ’way frum hyar? I
ask it on my knees.”
They looked up and saw Old Pegs standing calmly on the summit of the
rock, looking earnestly down at them.
“Won’t you _please_ go ’way?” he repeated. “We wanter come through this
yer pass, ourselves.”
“Why don’t you come, then?” demanded Jim Diggs, restraining some of his
companions who were about to fire on the old hunter.
“Acause you’ve got some chaps down thar with long poles, and the cattle
kain’t come through,” replied Old Pegs.
“That’s bad!” said Jim Diggs, “and they are a dreadful obstinite lot of
men, too, and I’m afraid they’ll want to stay whar they are.”
“Can’t we persuade ’em ter go ’way?” said Old Pegs.
“I’m afraid not, old man.”
“I’ll try what _I_ kin do!” roared Old Pegs. “Go to work, boys.”
The ravine was narrow as we have said, and the sides very precipitous.
The old man suddenly disappeared, and scarcely had he done so when the
sky began to rain large stones about the size of a man’s head, which
came rattling down about the skulls of the enemy in a dreadfully
unpleasant way, while nothing could be seen of the men who were throwing
them, and who lurked far enough back of the verge to be out of range.
“Kain’t we persuade yer?” yelled Old Pegs, as stone after stone came
crashing down. “Oh, yes, we kin. Git up and dust, you scum of mortality.
You children of evil, _git_!”
It was death to remain, for, hemmed in that narrow pass, while the rocks
continued to come down like rain upon their heads, four men already lay
dead, and others were desperately wounded, while the mocking laughter of
the trappers, perched upon the rocks, rung in their ears. Worst of all,
they could not see their assailants, who prudently kept back out of
reach while they continued to send the stones flying over into the pass.
There was nothing for it except retreat, for no man could live long
under that terrible avalanche. There seemed to be no lack of ammunition,
for the hail-storm increased instead of diminished. Having done all that
men could do, they retreated, and Old Pegs signaled the trappers from
the top of the rocks. They at once threw themselves into the saddle and
came on at a mad gallop. As the Hudson Bay men showed a disposition to
return, those on the rocks took their rifles and gave them two withering
volleys, which quickly sent them back into the valley beyond. Running
along the crest of the ravine at the head of his men, Old Pegs gained a
position from which he could guard the advance of his friends at little
hazard to himself. The enemy were now hastily retreating across the
valley, moving toward a dark pass two or three miles distant, where they
proposed to make another stand. Old Pegs rapidly descended the rocks and
joined his friends, as they debouched from the ravine, with Dave Farrell
at their head.
“Well done, Old True Blue!” he said. “That trick saved us twenty men, at
least.”
“We hain’t got men to spare, either,” replied Old Pegs. “Them devils kin
fight, and you bet yer life they _will_ fight, too, cuss ’em. Thet pass
they ar’ gittin’ inter now is mighty strong.”
“Can’t we turn it, as we did the last?”
“Ska’cely! They won’t be sech durned fools this time, and we may
kalkilate on finding some of ther men roosting on the sides of the
ravine, ef we play thet game. ’Sides thet, the pass is wider, and they
could keep away from the stuns.”
“Then we must attack them in front,” said Dave, quietly. “I’ll back my
boys to do the work clean.”
“I guess we kin do better’n thet,” replied the old hunter. “Whar’s my
hoss? What wuz it old Solomon said ’bout a beggar on hossback, eh? I’m
one ov them chaps myself, jest now, but I feel more at hum. Hold on;
what d’ye say ef I go out and hev a talk with them critters?”
“It might do some good, but I doubt it,” replied Dave.
“I guess I’ll try it. They hev hed a right smart chaince ter know what
kind of stuff we ar’ made of, and mebbe they’ve got enuff. Anyhow, I kin
only try it. Who’s got a han’kercher? Don’t all speak ter onc’t, ’cause
I knows yer don’t blow yer noses onc’t a week. Not thet one, Granny;
they’ll think it’s a black flag and shoot at me. No, Pipes, old boy;
they’d kick on thet, too; they’ll think it’s a battle-flag, full ov
holes. Hyar’s one will do.”
He took the handkerchief which Dave presented, fastened it on a ramrod
and rode away toward the pass. At first the Indians showed a disposition
to fire at him, but at a word from the man who acted as leader of the
whites, Jim Diggs, they lowered their weapons, and the leader stepped a
few paces to the front and waited for the coming of the hunter, who rode
on, shaking out his hastily-improvised flag.
“Hullo, Jim,” he said, coolly. “Durn my cats ef I’ve seen ye sence the
day Captain Burns hed ye hosswhipped out’n Laramie fur stealing his
blankets. I’m mighty glad ter see ye.”
“Play yer game a little more keerful, old man,” said Diggs, playing with
the butt of his revolver. “I kain’t ante or foller suit when ye lead
that way.”
“_Pass_ it, then,” replied Old Pegs; “but don’t try ter skeer me by
laying hands on a weepen, or I’ll come down on yer like a roaring lion
and devour ye, body and bonos. I’m mighty hungry, anyhow.”
“This ain’t business,” replied Diggs, seeing that bravado was of no
avail. “What d’ye mean by pitching inter us, this way?”
“Jimmy—Jimmy Diggs!” said Old Pegs, “whatever ye do, play fa’r. Didn’t
you try to wipe us out, over north, night afore last?”
“I guess you’ve made a mistake, old man. We don’t seek to harm no one.”
“No more Velveteens didn’t, nor yet Rafe Norris, eh? Come, Jim, don’t be
so cussid foolish. Whar’s my gal?”
“Your gal! I dunno what ye mean; we hain’t got no gal, ez I knows on.”
“Mebbe I’d better ask yer another question. Whar’s Rafe Norris?”
“Dunno any such person,” replied Jim Diggs, quietly.
“You don’t?”
“No sirree; ain’t no sech person in this yer camp, nor yet no
Velveteens. I guess you’ve barked up the wrong tree, boss.”
“It seems as ef we didn’t understand one another’s game,” said Old Pegs,
frowning. “Now look yer: I want to know whar Rafe Norris is—the man thet
stole my gal. You know who I mean durned well, you cussid skunk, and
you’d better tell me now while I keep my temper.”
“Don’t know any Rafe Norris.”
“Whar is Curly-headed Ned, then? Does thet seem ter suit yer complaint?”
Jim Diggs started and turned pale, as the old hunter pronounced that
name. It told him that he was not to be deceived, and that he knew well
the character of Rafe Norris.
“You size my pile, Old Pegs,” said Diggs, quietly. “I know _that_ name
well enough, and I kin find him mighty easy.”
“Find him, then.”
Diggs turned about and whistled, and a man showed himself at the mouth
of the pass.
“The capt’in,” cried Diggs. “Say Old Pegs wants ter see him.”
The man disappeared, and ten minutes later a man rode out of the pass,
at the sight of whom Old Pegs loosened his revolver in his belt, while
an ominous look passed over his face. It was Rafe Norris, clad in a
half-Indian garb, with a plumed head-dress flaunting the eagle-feather
of a chief. It was a strangely picturesque garb, and he looked noble in
it, wicked man as he was. There was a look of reckless daring on his
face as he dashed up.
“Ho, Old Pegs,” he said. “My worthy father-in-law that is to be, I greet
you. To what may I ascribe the honor of this meeting?”
“Don’t chaff any more then you kin help, Rafe, acause I ain’t in the
right temper ter b’ar it. You lying skunk, whar is my gal, Myrtle?”
“Safe enough, my dear sir, safe enough,” replied Rafe. “I have come to
the conclusion that you are not the right person to take charge of a
beautiful girl like Myrtle, and so I have taken her off your hands. You
ought to be thankful for it.”
“I want that gal, Rafe Norris.”
“So do I!” replied Norris, calmly. “Let us understand one another, my
good old friend. I love that girl and intend to make her my wife. I love
her so well that nothing earthly, past, present or to come, can turn me
from my purpose. The fear of death, all that any enemy can do, weigh as
feathers in the balance against my love for her, and I will not give her
up. I have another reason, too, which I will not tell you now.”
“You’d ruther die, eh?” cried Old Pegs, in a tone of deadly fury. “Then
stand out thar like a man, take yer rifle and fight it out.”
“Thanks,” replied Rafe. “I’d much prefer not to do that. But, don’t you
want to see your child?”
“Yes,” replied Old Pegs.
“You shall. Now Jim! Down with him.”
And regardless of the flag, the two men threw themselves upon Old Pegs
and attempted to bear him to the earth.
CHAPTER XI.
THE HEROINE A CAPTIVE.
This cowardly act, while it was a surprise to Old Pegs, did not find him
utterly unprepared. He suffered himself to slip from the saddle, and in
doing so, dragged his two assailants with him, each encircled by one of
his powerful arms. Once upon the ground they realized that it was not an
easy work which they had undertaken, for those great arms enfolded them
with a gripe which literally drove the breath from their bodies, strong
men as they were. A moment more and Jim Diggs was down with the huge
foot of the hunter planted on his breast, while above him stood the
stalwart old man with Rafe Norris in his grasp, shaking him until it
seemed as if he would tear him limb from limb.
“Turn on a flag, would yer?” hissed the old man. “I orter kill yer—I
orter cut yer heart out, by Jinks; why shouldn’t I?”
Rafe made frantic efforts to get at a weapon, but his efforts were vain,
and Jim Diggs was utterly powerless under the pressure of that heavy
foot. The outlaws in the pass, seeing the terrible danger of their
leaders, advanced at a wild gallop, while a party of the trappers about
equal in numbers, charged in return. But, before they could reach the
combatants Old Pegs was standing alone in a sea of tossing steel, set
upon at once by twenty foes. His wild whoop of defiance rung out above
the tumult and a terrible commotion was made in their midst. Horses
careered away riderless, shouts of wild rage were heard, and out of the
tempest of steel rode Old Pegs, whirling above his head the rifle which
served him for a mace. More than one Indian cabin was empty from that
hour, for the warriors would never more return from the battle or the
chase.
“Yah—hip!” yelled Old Pegs, as he still struck right and left. “Old Pegs
is thar, every time. Whoop! Sock it to ’em, boys; give ’em Bunker Hill!”
His friends are hardly a hundred paces away, when the brave old hunter
dropped his hands to his side attacked by an unlooked-for weapon, and
one against which he had not time to guard, the lasso! He feels the
deadly noose settle over his shoulders and tighten about his arms, still
another and another follows—and he is dragged from the saddle into the
center of his enemies, who, satisfied with what they have done, turn
their horses’ heads and fly, bearing the hunter in their midst. Close
upon the crupper, dropping a man at almost every stride, ride the bold
trappers, so close indeed that they sweep into the pass with the pursued
so near that they can not turn and defend themselves. Man after man
falls and still they press on.
“Keep up the pace, boys!” screamed Dave, wild with the delight of
battle. “Down with the cut-throats.”
Rafe Norris heard his voice and made a half-turn in his saddle with a
revolver in his hand. Without checking his horse in the least he fired
and the bullet passed through Farrell’s cap, absolutely cutting a track
through his thick hair, so close a shave was it. Dave returned the fire
quickly, but a man who happened to swerve a little from his course
received the bullet and fell with a hoarse cry of agony, stricken
through the collar-bone.
But this pace could not last forever, and the outlaws burst out of the
pass in advance and were half-way across the level valley which lay in
front when the headmost trapper rode out of the pass. Here there was
room to turn, and Rafe Norris was the man to take advantage of it. Forty
of his bravest men wheeled out and joined him and they formed a line to
protect the retreat of the rest, held the trappers in check for five
minutes and then fell back slowly, their faces ever turned to the foe
and their rifles playing upon their scattered files. In this order the
rear guard disappeared in the next pass, leaving the trappers in the
valley, a place of small extent with a narrow strip of timber crossing
it from side to side. Under the shadow of this timber Dave called his
men to a halt, to breathe the horses which had been severely blown in
the desperate chase.
“We have lost a good man, boys,” he said, raising his cap reverently,
“for these villains will murder him beyond a doubt. Taken while bearing
a white flag! By Heaven, the Sioux alone would not have been guilty of a
breach of faith like that. What are we to do now we have lost our
guide?”
“I know the passes well enough, Cap,” replied one of the men, “but upon
my word we’ve got heavy work before us. They can hold that pass against
us for twenty years.”
“We’ll try it, however,” replied Dave. “At best we can only fail and I
for one have given my life to the cause.”
Old Pegs was a prisoner in the hands of a foe as relentless as death, a
man who respected nothing, not even the sanctity of a flag. The lassoes
had not been removed from his arms but he was lifted bodily into the
saddle of a man who had fallen under the sweep of his powerful arm,
while on one side rode Jim Diggs and on the other a man equally cruel,
holding a revolver ready for a shot.
“The Hudson Bay must be proud of its men,” said Old Pegs. “Ef a
North-west party hed done this, not one of ’em could ’a’ stayed in ther
kentry.”
“The Company don’t know _all_ we do,” replied Diggs, with a grin. “Our
instructions are gineral and we take lots of _latitude_.”
“Looks like it,” said the old hunter. “You _run_ fast enough.”
“It’s a good thing to know _when_ to run, old man,” replied Diggs.
They entered the pass in safety and were quickly followed by the rear
guard. Rafe Norris came last and leaped from his horse quickly.
“Lances to the front,” he cried. “Joe Beaver, take ten men up the east
side of the pass and don’t let any one come up. Boston Jake, take the
same number of men up the west side with the same instructions. If you
had done this before, Jim, you would have saved some men.”
“I know it, now,” said Diggs. “D’ye want to save this prisoner? He ain’t
wuth much to keep.”
“I have not fully made up my mind,” replied Rafe Norris.
“Shoot me, why don’t you?” cried Old Pegs. “You shot the Indian and
Velveteens, good friends of yours, and why not Old Pegs?”
“Dog!” hissed Rafe Norris. “You don’t know how near to death you are at
this moment. Breathe a word of that kind again and you are a dead man.”
“I don’t keer much how soon I go under,” was the undaunted reply, “but I
don’t believe even your men would stand a murder like that. Why don’t
you try it?”
“’Twon’t do, Cap,” whispered Diggs, with a side glance at the men.
“Thar’s over twenty of our boys gone under, and some of ’em ar’ alive,
probably. If we kill him now thar ain’t no chance for them.”
“See that he does not escape, that is all. If he does, your life will
answer for it. I am satisfied that, without him for a guide, the devils
can’t get at us, and our taking him was a sore stroke to them. I am
going up to see my intended bride, Old Pegs.”
Rafe Norris laughed scornfully, leaped into the saddle and rode away
swiftly up the pass, which ended in a sort of amphitheater, hemmed in by
giant rocks, an approach to which by any thing except the opening by
which he had entered seemed almost impossible. Six men were in the
place, seated upon a flat rock, four of them engaged in a little game of
“draw poker,” and the fifth looking on deeply interested. A little way
off, Myrtle sat upon a stone, and a stalwart man stood near, watching
her closely. Her countenance was downcast, and she did not look up when
Rafe Norris rode into the glade and dismounted. The players suspended
operations and looked at their leader in some doubt.
“Away with those painted darlings,” he cried. “Your business was to
watch the prisoner, not to play poker. We are beset by this accursed
Brigade, and it is impossible to say whether we will ever escape. Over
twenty of the boys have gone under, but we’ll hold the pass now—no
matter what happens, until the last man drops.”
He left them and advanced hurriedly to the side of Myrtle, making a
signal to the guard that he might go. The fellow seemed glad to be
released, and walked hastily away, while Rafe took a seat upon a stone
close to Myrtle.
“How have you passed the hours of my absence, darling?” he said in his
blandest tone. “I hope you have not grieved that I did not return
sooner.”
“My deepest grief was in the thought that you _would_ come back sooner
or later,” was the reply. “It can not last long, for your master will
surely claim his own soon.”
“My master? Oh; you refer to the Supreme Master of the realms below,”
replied Rafe with a light laugh. “Have no fears, my sweet one. _He_
never interferes with those who are doing his work on earth if he can
possibly avoid it. I came to bring you a little news?”
“You can bring me none that will please me,” was the cool reply, “unless
it is that the day of your hanging is appointed!”
“Hardly that, dear girl. How you must love me by this time.”
“Yes, as I love adders, toads and rattlesnakes.”
“You will go too far, my girl,” he said, knitting his dark brows. “I
warn you to be careful, for although I am a man who can bear much from
one I love, my temper is not of the sweetest at all times. Do you know
that your father is in my hands?”
She started and look at him wildly. She had hoped for much at the hands
of Old Pegs, and if he were indeed taken her hope was vain.
“I can hardly believe that you speak the truth,” she said. “By what
treachery has he fallen into your hands? He never was taken by fair
means.”
“It matters little,” was the reply, “as long as I have him safe—and
intend to make him the means of extorting a promise from you which I
know you will not break. Ha; your friends are getting impatient, but my
boys will teach them that it is not good to rouse the lion in his lair.”
The battle had recommenced in the pass beyond.
“The lion! Do not shame that noble brute by comparing yourself with him.
Say rather the coyote—sly, treacherous and cowardly—and the simile may
apply.”
“My patience is going fast,” he said, savagely. “Now hear me, and be
careful of your answers. When we have beaten off your friends, the
trappers, we take our march for Fort Garry, as we have done our work
here for the present. I am rich now, and will turn my back forever on
the mountains and plains of the West, and lead a new life in the region
of the tropics. There our lives will pass as a summer idyl, peaceful and
calm, and we will forget that this life of ours has ever been. There is
a chaplain at Fort Garry who will marry us—”
“Never!”
“Hear me out. Give me your promise to go with me, and no harm shall come
to him you call your father. I know that it is false—that he is not your
father, but that is nothing now. Refuse, and he shall die with the
utmost refinement of savage torment.”
“You would not do that?” she gasped.
“I? Oh no, that is not my business, but you must understand that the
Modoc Sioux—my allies—have lost many friends, and they claim a victim.
And, in short, I shall consider myself bound to give them one if you are
obdurate. What do you say?”
“I must see my father.”
“Oh, no; I know that the old knave would only strengthen you in your
obstinacy, and that would not pay. Without seeing him, you must either
accept or refuse.”
“You say that the Modoc Sioux demand a victim. Let it be so, then, for I
will not see my father perish.”
“Do you accept?” he cried, eagerly, for he knew that she would keep a
promise once made, if it broke her heart.
“You misunderstand me, sir. What I propose is this: let the Sioux have
their victim _in me_, and let that brave old man go free.”
“You—you!” he stammered. “Saints of mercy, what do you take me for?”
“I owe a happy life to Nicholas Fletcher, him you know as Old Pegs. Even
in this wild region, he has made me happy for twenty years. Nothing
which he could do has been wanting, and I owe him so much that I am
ready to give up my life for his sake.”
At this moment a rattling volley was heard at the entrance of the
valley, followed by wild yells of savage vengeance. The fire was
returned, but as Rafe Norris listened breathlessly he knew that his men
were falling back. What could it mean? Why had they been so suddenly
ousted from their strong position by a force not nearly as large as
their own?
CHAPTER XII.
DROPPING THE MASK.
While Dave Farrell was deploying his forces for an attack upon the pass,
he heard behind him the rattle of advancing hoofs, and quickly drew his
men back into the shelter of the trees, for it might be an enemy. But,
to his delight, the first man who rode out of the pass was Whirlwind,
the Blackfoot, and behind him a hundred picked men of his nation. They
had followed the outlaws after the repulse at the trapper camp, and
attacked their rear, but they had taken shelter in one of the passes and
had driven the Indians back. But, hearing the sound of the combat,
Whirlwind, who was on his way to join his forces with those of Dave
Farrell, at once turned back and now came on eager for the fray.
The reinforcement was needed, for the trappers were somewhat worn by the
battles and skirmishes of the day. Dave rode out to meet the chief and
greeted him warmly.
“My brother has fought well,” said the warrior, reproachfully; “but, why
did he not wait for the Blackfeet, who seek revenge upon the Modoc Sioux
and their friends?”
“We did not know where you were, chief,” replied Dave; “but we’ll give
you fighting enough before we have done with this business, that I tell
you. There is the enemy, but if you join us, you must fight as I tell
you.”
“Whirlwind is not ashamed to fight under the Beaver Captain,” replied
the chief. “He will listen to the words of wisdom.”
“Dismount your men and picket the horses here behind the woods. Five men
will do to guard them.”
The order was promptly obeyed, and the Blackfeet advanced on foot. They
were an active-looking, stalwart body of men, and Dave was delighted
with their appearance.
“We are here,” cried Whirlwind. “Let the Beaver Captain tell us what to
do, and we are ready.”
“Good!” replied Dave, adopting the laconic manner of the Indians.
“Remember that Short Legs is a prisoner among our enemies, and be
careful to do him no harm. Speak to your men and tell them this.”
The chief did so, and then drawing him aside, Dave gave him instructions
how to proceed. His plan was to separate the Indians and send them up
the hills to drive out the two parties detached by Rafe Norris to guard
the flanks of his forces, and then assail them from the cliff, while the
trappers attacked the front.
The Indian, pleased with the duty assigned him, quickly separated his
men, placing one half under the command of a man whom he could trust,
and then, keeping under cover of the strip of woods, marched to the
right and left until they reached the confines of the valley, and began
to steal up through the dark defiles, climbing from rock to rock, toward
the place where the flanking-parties lay.
It was some time before these men understood the movement, but when they
did so, every thing was done which men could do to make their position
good. But the savages, sheltering themselves in every conceivable way,
gradually closed in until scarcely a hundred yards separated them, when
they rose from the cover and rushed in with hatchet and knife to do the
work assigned them. A desperate struggle followed, hand to hand and foot
to foot; but numbers triumphed, and of the twenty-two men who had been
appointed to guard the flanks, only eight, and three of these wounded,
reached the level where their comrades stood.
These had their hands full, for the trappers were advancing, firing as
they ran, and a large party had already effected a lodgment among the
scattered bowlders which lay about the mouth of the pass, while the
Blackfeet were raining down every possible missile on the heads of the
astounded British.
The Sioux, unable to stand the attack, were falling back in confusion,
with great loss, and the whites opened to permit them to pass through,
while they closed in sullenly to cover the retreat. Sadly thinned in
numbers, the band showed a gallant front still, and walked calmly back,
pausing now and then to take a shot at the Blackfeet on the rocks, who
showed themselves at times, shaking the scalps they had taken in the
air, and waking the echoes with their shouts of triumph.
“Look hyar; some one is going to git hurt if this goes on. You’d better
let me loose,” Old Pegs said.
“I’ll see you skulped first,” roared Jim Diggs.
“Good-by, then,” replied Old Pegs, tauntingly, as he flung himself out
of the saddle suddenly and sprung into a deep fissure which ran close
beside the road. “I’m off!”
“Shoot him, durn ye, shoot!” yelled Diggs, as he emptied his revolver
into the fissure up which the old hunter was climbing, his form scarcely
distinguishable. A volley rattled upward and Old Pegs who had reached a
ledge at least twenty feet above them threw up his hands and fell upon
the ledge out of sight.
“Done fur!” said Jim, coolly. “He _would_ hev it, ye see. Jump up thar,
Boston Jake, and lift his ha’r.”
The man was about to obey, but at this moment the trappers burst in upon
them and Boston Jake was forced to go with the rest, and in some haste,
for the bullets of the trappers, “deadly aimed and hot,” rattled through
the crowded ranks. The slow retreat turned almost to a rout, long before
they reached the mouth of the ravine, but at this moment, wild eyed and
savage, Rafe Norris broke a way through the ranks of his own men and
reached the front.
“Turn, curse you, turn!” he screamed, striking one of his own men a
furious blow which brought him to the ground. “Turn, cowards and dogs!
Never let it be said that you fled from such as these.”
There was certainly personal magnetism about this man, for those who
were to all outward seeming beaten beyond recall, turned at his
slightest word and for a moment bore back the rushing tide of the
trappers. But the Blackfeet, creeping from ledge to ledge, again reached
a place from which they could rain destruction on the heads of their
enemies, who were again forced to retire, but sullenly, contesting every
foot of ground.
“That cursed Blackfoot has ruined us, Jim,” groaned Rafe, looking up at
the cliffs. “But for him they never could have broken through.”
“The boys fought like devils, I tell ye,” said Jim Diggs. “Oh, I forgot
to tell ye thet ‘Old Pegs’ tried to leg it and we had to pop him over.”
“Let him go,” replied Rafe, quietly. “If it had been Dave Farrell I
would have felt better, and yet the old man has done me wrong. Look
out!”
A great rock hurled from the hand of Whirlwind, struck Jim Diggs on the
head and brought him to the earth with a hollow groan, while a wild
triumphant yell pealed up from the throat of Whirlwind as he noted the
result of the throw. The last and most unscrupulous of the lieutenants
of Rafe Norris had gone to his last home. Rafe shook his clenched hand
at the Indians on the cliff, and ordered his men to fall back to the
mouth of the pass which opened into the Spirit Spring Valley, resolved
to hold it to the last.
The Modoc Sioux, greatly thinned by the battles of the last two weeks,
sullenly took their stations behind the bowlders, ready to die in their
tracks if need be. The whites looked over their cartridges, saw to it
that every weapon was in order, and stood ready to obey the commands of
their chief.
“I’d like to revenge myself on them, boys,” hissed Rafe Norris. “If it
did not look like deserting you, I have a way yet if it would suit you.”
“Let’s hear it, Cap,” said Boston Jake. “We’ll do any thing for you.”
“I don’t doubt it, Jake. Come with me and I’ll tell you my plan.”
The two stood in close conference for a moment and then Jake passed to
and fro among the men, telling them what the captain meant to do and
they agreed to it at once. Then leaving them to keep off the forces of
Dave Farrell as long as possible, Norris stepped hastily to the side of
Myrtle.
“Come, my darling,” he said, mockingly. “It is time that we were on the
way.”
“I am not going anywhere with you,” was the answer.
“Really, you do yourself wrong by such conduct as this. You _are_ going
somewhere with me and at once.”
“I will not.”
“I have no time to waste. Will you go with me quietly or shall I call
some of the Indians to carry you? They are not very courteous knights,
and perhaps—”
“I will go with you,” she said, quickly, “but woe to you if you cherish
any evil thought against me, for with the first weapon I can reach I
will kill you.”
He made no answer but took her hand and led her at a rapid pace up the
little valley until he reached the south end. Two Indians bearing a
number of new lariats accompanied them and they stopped at the base of
the almost perpendicular cliff and began to climb like cats until they
reached a ledge fifty feet above the bottom of the canon. Then they sent
down the ends of a doubled lariat which was formed into a sort of chair
at the bottom, and at a sign from Rafe, Myrtle took her place in it and
was raised to the ledge above. The rope was lowered again and Rafe came
up, hand over hand, and reached the ledge panting for breath. The
Indians slid down the lariats, which Rafe flung down to them and the two
departed, leaving Rafe and Myrtle standing on the ledge.
“It will trouble your good friends to follow us here,” said Rafe,
laughing. “Capital scouts they may be but I doubt if they could track us
up this cliff.”
“You will find it hard to deceive my father,” she replied, “if he once
takes your trail.”
“I don’t think he will trouble me any more,” replied Rafe, with a grim
smile, turning away his head. “Your father was a plucky and keen-witted
man, but it is out of his power to harm me now.”
“Have you murdered him?” she gasped, looking at him wildly.
“I am not a murderer,” was the calm answer. “He tried to escape from my
men while I was basking in the sunlight of your smiles, and got hit.
That is all I know about it.”
“I will remember how it was done,” cried Myrtle, with a lurid gleam in
her beautiful eyes. “But I will speak to you no more until the time
comes for you to die.”
He took her hand again and led her by wild paths across the mountain,
until she was nearly ready to sink from fatigue. Through all this, he
had shown a certain chivalrous care of her which was hardly to be looked
for after all that had happened. When he saw that she was tired, he
stopped and pulled moss from the rocks, which he spread to make her a
couch.
“Do not fear me,” he said, as she seemed to shrink from his touch. “I
would not do you a wrong, for I worship the ground your feet have trod.”
“It may be so,” she said, quietly. “Let us say that you really love me,
then. But, do you not take a strange way of showing it?”
“I will change all that,” he cried. “Look you, Myrtle Forrester—you
start at the name, do you?—I will show you that I know more of you than
you suppose. On the fourteenth of June, twelve years ago, a train was
run into by Sioux on the plain toward the Three Buttes. It was supposed
that every person was killed, but as it turned out, an old prairie-man,
known as Old Pegs, was some miles from camp, having in charge a child
six years of age, the daughter of an Indian agent named Forrester, who
was going to Bent’s Fort. These two were all who escaped, and Old Pegs
came back to find the camp in ruins, and every man and woman killed and
scalped.”
“You know all this? Will you tell me how it came to _your_ knowledge?”
“No matter; I know that it is true, and so do you. Forrester was not
quite dead, and after leaving his daughter to the care of Old Pegs, with
an injunction to guard her as his life, Forrester died. Old Pegs kept
his word, and Myrtle Forrester is now my prisoner, and destined soon to
be my wife.”
“You dare not say that my brave guardian did not keep his promise well,”
cried Myrtle. “No father could be more tender or true than he has been
to me, and I can not bring myself to think that he has been foully
murdered.”
“You still cling to that word, Myrtle. If I had been his prisoner, and
had attempted to escape, he would not have hesitated to fire at me.”
“Doubtless you are right,” she said; “but I shall not pardon you for
that. Why have you told my story to me here?”
“That you may know that I am not entirely unacquainted with your
history, and that I knew who and where you were before I came to the
Indian country. Myrtle, I came to find you and win your love!”
“You came here for that!” she cried, with dilating eyes, “Who and what
are you, then?”
“Rafe Norris, at your service! Curly-headed Ned, so called at the forts
upon Hudson Bay; and Edward Forrester within the realms of civilization.
But come—have you rested enough?”
She rose at once and followed him, but the name which he had given last
troubled her. “Curly-headed Ned” she knew by report, as a chief over one
section of the Modoc Sioux, and a man whose name was stained by a
hundred crimes. But, why did he lay claim to the name of Forrester?
“I see that you are puzzled,” he said, with a smile. “I am afraid that
you doubt that the name of Forrester is really mine. Is it not so?”
“I can not see why you claim it.”
“Because it is my right name. I have the honor to be your cousin, my
dear girl, and this will in some sort account for the affection which I
bear you.”
“You claim kindred with me, and yet seek to wrong me in the basest
manner. There—I believe that it is all false, and— Where are you taking
me? I have been in this pass before.”
He smiled in a superior sort of way, and turning a sharp angle, stepped
suddenly into the path down which she had forced Velveteens on the day
when she made him prisoner. Her captor was taking her to her former
home! A great fear came into her heart, for she knew that he would not
dare to bring her to the cabin of Old Pegs unless that brave man had
ceased to breathe.
CHAPTER XIII.
A DREADFUL ORDEAL—FINIS.
Boston Jake and his men did not resist very long after the departure of
Rafe Norris. They stood out long enough to give a good excuse for
yielding, and then sent out a flag to sue for peace. The Sioux would not
trust to that, but took to the mountain at once, and sought to find
their way back to their own country in small parties. Boston Jake
surrendered his party in person, and Dave received his submission.
“Where is the man who was captured while carrying a flag?” he demanded.
“You know well whom I mean.”
“Yes—I know that well enough, boss, but he’s pegged out. ’Tain’t my
fault, you know.”
“Who, then, is to blame?”
“Jim Diggs shot him on the jump, trying to escape. It were rough, but
Jim couldn’t help it.”
“I shall hang three of your men for the murder,” replied Dave, quietly,
“and they will be selected by lot.”
“That ain’t according to Hoyle, boss,” said Boston Jake. “I kain’t see
that play of yours, after we guv up.”
“_He_ was taken with a white flag in his hand.”
“It were cussid mean, I know,” replied Jake; “but it ain’t right to do
evil acause some one else did, eh?”
“Enough; where is Rafe Norris, better known as Curly-headed Ned?”
“Curly? Why, he went away, two hours ago. He don’t hanker arter you
chaps, you understand; they don’t suit him, nohow.”
“The scoundrel! It will go hard with him when we once lay hands on him.
Where is the daughter of Old Pegs? Tell me quickly before I put a bullet
through your head.”
“You needn’t rare up that ar’ way,” said Boston Jake, sullenly. “I don’t
keer two cents what you do with me, and I don’t skeer at all so you mout
as well let me down easy. That’s the way I talk it. Curly-headed Ned hez
got the gal.”
The forces of Whirlwind satisfied that their sworn enemies—the
Sioux—were scattered in the mountains, at once set out in pursuit,
breaking up into squads of ten or less for that purpose. Woe to the
Modoc Sioux whom they ran down. His scalp quickly adorned the belt of
some son of the Blackfoot tribe, and hung afterward in the smoke of his
lodge. The prisoners were quickly bound, and leaving ten men as a guard
the rest of the trappers began to search for the trail of Rafe Norris.
But they missed the keen eyes and subtle skill of Old Pegs, the man who
could read in rocks and sod the slightest pressure of the human foot,
and the search for a long time was vain, and Dave Farrell began to
despair of success. They could find no trail.
In the meantime, Myrtle was a prisoner in the hands of Rafe Norris. He
rapidly descended the slope which led to the hunter’s cabin, holding her
by the hand, and led her in at the open door of her former home.
“Here we are, my dear,” he said quietly. “You see that it becomes my
province to make you welcome to the home which was once yours. Do not
mistake me, sweet girl. I will do you no wrong, unless it is wicked in
me to wish to make you my wife.”
“It is more than wicked—it is cruel and unmanly. Oh, if my hands could
reach a weapon your life would be short.”
“Doubtless you are right, Myrtle,” he said mournfully. “You would slay
one who stands ready to lay down his life in your service, and who is
willing to devote that life to make you happy. Can I say nothing to make
you change your purpose, my darling?”
“Can you bring the dead to life? Will you be able to call Nicholas
Fletcher from the bloody grave your hounds have given him? Oh, how base
I should be if I ever forgot or forgave this last crowning crime!”
“Enough,” he cried, harshly. “I see that good words are but thrown away
upon you, and that harsh measures are necessary. My mind is fully made
up, and you will find that I can be harsh if it seems to be needful and
can compel obedience to my wishes. Hold out your hands; I must bind you
or you will attempt to escape.”
She put out her hands as if to comply, but as he stooped to take up the
buck-skin thong from the table, she bounded past him, and the sharp
click announced that she had opened the trap beneath the bed. Before he
could reach it the second click announced that it was closed again.
Furious with passion he tugged at the light couch, and literally tore it
from its place, but the trap remained firm in its place and all his
efforts could not move it in the least. Dashing out into the next room
he caught up a heavy ax and darted back.
“Stand out of the way below,” he cried, “or you may be hurt.”
The boards flew asunder under his furious strokes, and in an
inconceivably short space of time he had made an opening large enough to
permit him to descend. As he was about to step upon the stairs he heard
the clear voice of Myrtle.
“For your life—stand back!”
He looked once—and obeyed! She was standing in the little passage,
holding a lighted taper in her hand. Just in front of her stood a small
keg of powder with the head knocked out, and as he saw her pale,
determined face by the light of the taper, he knew that she would
destroy herself sooner than fall into his hands again.
“Mad woman,” he screamed. “What would you do?”
“You can find out readily by coming down,” was the quiet reply. “If you
set your foot upon that step again it is the signal for your death.”
“And yours—also!”
“And mine. I think that I should be doing good service in killing you
even though I lose my life.”
The man hesitated and stepped back into the room with a look of absolute
terror on his face. He had not lied when he said that he loved her
dearly, and it was terrible to him to think that she hated him so much
that she would sooner die than be his wife. He tried persuasion, but to
that she would not answer, standing statue-like, holding the taper in
her unshaking hand.
“What good can it do you?” he said. “You must yield in time.”
“If I feel that I am growing weak,” she replied, “at that moment I will
fire the powder. At the least I shall go to my Maker pure, and send you
to your Judge at the same moment. From this time I will not answer you a
word.”
She drew a block close to the side of the keg and sat down with a bundle
of tapers by her side. The one she held burned low, and she lighted
another and waited as calmly as before, while above her the hungry eyes
of Rafe Norris looked down at the prize he could not reach. He hoped
that she would sleep, but the peculiar brightness of her eyes convinced
him that it was impossible. Only fatigue, hunger or thirst could
overcome her, and she had sworn that when that time came she would fire
the train.
Twice he called to her as the hours passed on, but neither by sign, word
or look did she show that she knew any thing of his presence, although
her eyes never left the opening in the floor. In his madness he revolved
in his mind a thousand plans to get her away from the powder if but for
a moment, but it was useless; none of his plans were feasible while he
could not draw from her a single look or sign of recognition. He felt
that he could not bear this suspense much longer, but it must be borne.
Hour after hour crept on; the tapers burned out, one by one, and as the
first gray streaks of the morning light showed themselves in the east
she took up the _last taper_ and calmly lighted it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he cried, exultantly; “your lights are gone. In a moment I
shall have you in my power.”
She spoke now for the first time since she had sealed her lips.
“It will burn for an hour,” she said. “I will spend that hour in praying
to God to take me in mercy to his rest, and when the taper burns low I
will fire the powder.”
“You dare not, girl,” he hissed. “It is murder. You cannot destroy
yourself in that cruel way. Oh, heaven, what shall I do? I will give you
up—do you hear? I will give you up.”
“I cannot trust you. If I throw away the taper, you will treat your word
as you did when my guardian fell into your hands.”
“I will not—I swear by everything I hold holy and pure. I will go away
and never come back if you will throw away the taper. I swear it, on my
soul.”
“Swear by something else. I will not trust you. Keep silent, base man,
and let me at least spend my last hour in quiet.”
“You shall not do it,” he screamed. “Here are my weapons, and I have no
others—my revolvers. Take them, and then you can surely consider
yourself safe.”
“Will you give them?” she cried, eagerly. “If you do that, I may put
some trust in your promises, for I shall be able to enforce obedience.”
He hesitated for a moment, but as she advanced the light in the
direction of the keg, he took the weapons from his belt and threw them
down to her. Shifting the taper into her left hand, she caught up a
weapon and glanced at it, her quick look assuring her that it was ready
for service, and she sprung to her feet, hastily hurling away the taper
which was burned half-way down. Myrtle was young, and life was in its
bloom for her, and she was happy in her escape.
“Go outside,” she said, “and let me see your face at the window of my
room.”
He hurried out at once, and looking up through the trap, she caught
sight of his pale face peering through the little window. In an instant
she was out of the passage and at the door, holding her revolvers cocked
in each hand.
“It is over now, Rafe Norris,” she said. “Go, before I forget myself and
avenge in your person my murdered friend, my more than father, Nicholas
Fletcher.”
But he folded his arms and looked at her fixedly, the light of a strange
resolve in his eyes.
“You think you have conquered,” he said, “because I have given up my
weapons. But not yet, my dear, not yet. I swear that you shall either
kill me where I stand or go with me.”
He made a step in advance, and she brought down her right-hand pistol
with a stern, decided movement. Thus they stood at bay, each looking
into the eyes of the other.
“If you miss!” he hissed, speaking through his set teeth.
“I shall _not_ miss,” was the stern reply. “Beware what you do.”
He was doubling himself for a spring, and her bright eyes were glancing
resolutely along the barrel of the deadly weapon, when a calm voice
said:
“Hold on! _I_ meander in and take a hand.”
Myrtle turned with a wild cry of delight. Old Pegs in the body, to all
appearance sound in every part, stood before her.
“Come hyar while I hug yer!” cried the old man, with a suspicious catch
in his voice. “Rafe Norris, I’ll attend to _you_, right soon, I will.”
He passed his strong arm about the slender form of Myrtle, and pressed
his lips to her fair cheek.
“Give them yer playthings ter me, darlin’,” he said, taking the
revolvers from her. “I ain’t got ne’er a weepon. Now stand one side and
see me mount this cuss.”
“Don’t fight him, father,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him, and beyond
the fact that he has kept me prisoner he has done me no wrong.”
“It won’t do,” replied Old Pegs, fiercely. “I’m going ter wipe him out,
sure, and I don’t want you to interfere or you and I’ll hev words. Look
hyar, Rafe Norris, Curly-headed Ned, Sarpint, whatever yer name is,
you’ve got ter fight _me_.”
“I am willing,” he cried, anxiously. “I’ll fight you in any way you
name.”
“Wait; I wanter leave the gal safe in case I go under. I don’t wanter,
but then I mout. Whar’s yer carbine, Myrtle?”
“In the cabin.”
“Git it and put a new charge in. You’ve got ter boss this skrimmage, you
understand, and see fa’r play. This yer skunk hez lived long enuff, I
kalkilate, and the sooner he’s wiped out the better.”
Myrtle knew the determined character of the old hunter well and that it
was useless to oppose him. She hurried into the house and brought out
her carbine, discharged it and put in a new load. She had the utmost
confidence in her guardian and believed that he was able to overcome
Rafe Norris in a fair fight. When she had loaded, Old Pegs turned to
Norris.
“We’ll stand off at about twenty paces and begin ef you hev no
objections. Thar’s a shooter.”
He tossed one of the revolvers to Rafe, who snatched it up eagerly.
“Ef I go under, gal, take to ther foot-hills and don’t come out till you
find Dave or some of the boys. Now we’ll stand back to back, walk ten
paces and wheel when you give the word. After that let the best man win,
but ef one of us tries to turn till you _do_ give the word—_send_ fur
him, thet’s all.”
“I’ll do it,” replied Myrtle, quietly, “and you may be sure I will not
miss. Get ready.”
The men placed themselves back to back.
“March,” she said.
They advanced ten paces each with his revolver ready.
“Ready—turn!”
The pistols exploded at the same moment. Old Pegs staggered a little,
but quickly recovered himself and fired again. Rafe Norris spun round
upon his heel, uttered a short, quick cry and fell upon his back while
the revolver dropped out of his hand. They ran to raise him and he made
a feeble effort to lift his weapon but his hand refused its office and
dropped heavily to his side.
“I’m done for,” he groaned, “and it served me right for all my villainy.
Old Pegs, open my coat and take out the paper you will find there.”
Old Pegs obeyed and found two or three letters and a legal-looking
document.
“I told you the truth, Myrtle, when I said I was your cousin. That paper
is a copy of our grandfather’s will which you will find in the hands of
Justin Lawrence, attorney, at St. Louis. When you read the will you will
understand why I wished to make you my wife. Never fear for me; I’ll die
as I have lived—game to the last. Here’s luck to the Hudson Bay!”
He shook his hand above his head and with the effort his life went out.
The will when read was found to be in favor of the heirs of Edward
Forrester, or, failing that, all was left to a benevolent institution at
St. Louis. To Edward Forrester, Jr., the only child of his youngest son,
the testator left one dollar “on account of his dissolute and unmanly
conduct.” The secret of his persistent effort to make Myrtle his wife
was explained.
There is little more to tell. They buried the unhappy man in the little
valley next day, and just as Old Pegs had laid the last sod upon him
Dave Farrell, followed by a portion of his men, rode into the place. The
yell which the trappers gave as they saw Old Pegs and Myrtle alive made
the mountains ring again, and Myrtle with a glad cry threw herself into
the arms of her “teacher,” brave Dave Farrell, the Beaver Captain.
A few days later the party set out for the fort, Old Pegs taking charge
of the papers left in his hands by Myrtle’s father by means of which her
identity was easily established, and she took possession by the will of
a property valued at one hundred thousand dollars.
But, prosperity did not spoil her; she still remained the same, and
loved her guardian and her trapper lover as of yore. Six months after
their return there was a quiet wedding and Dave Farrell with his
beautiful wife started for the East. Old Pegs left them in St. Louis,
resisting all entreaties to spend his life with the woman who had been a
daughter—more than a daughter to him. He could not leave the mountain
yet, but promised that when old age comes on him Myrtle shall smooth his
pathway to the grave. So promising he turned his face to the west and
was gone.
Whirlwind was killed in an attack upon a trapping camp, some years
since. The men who had followed Edward Forrester in his last expedition
scattered, and the time has nearly passed when the two great companies
strive for the possession of the trapping-grounds. But often by the
trapper’s fire some gray-haired man will tell the tale of the old days
when he took sides in this strange struggle.
Every year Old Pegs comes down to St. Louis and spends a month in the
company of his son and daughter—for he so regards them—and tells the
boys wild stories of the plains and mountains where he has lived so
long. May the day be far distant when he must lay his armor down.
THE END
DIME POCKET NOVELS.
PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.
1—Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.
2—Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.
3—The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.
4—Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
5—Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
6—The White Tracker. By Edward S. Ellis.
7—The Outlaw’s Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
8—The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
9—Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
10—The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
11—The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
12—Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
13—The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
14—Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
15—The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
16—Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
17—Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
18—Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
19—The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.
20—The B’ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
21—Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
22—Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
23—Old Kent, the Ranger. By Edward S. Ellis.
24—The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.
25—Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
26—The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
27—Single Eye. By Warren St. John.
28—Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.
29—The Scout. By Warren St. John.
30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
31—The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
32—The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.
33—The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
34—Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.
35—Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
37—Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.
38—The Heart Eater. By Harry Hazard.
39—Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
40—The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.
42—Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
43—The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.
44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
45—The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
46—Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.
47—The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
48—The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.
49—Mocassin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
50—The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.
51—Tom Hawk, the Trailer.
52—The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.
53—The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
54—Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
55—Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
56—The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
57—Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
58—Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.
59—The Texas Hawks By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
60—Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
61—Mad Anthony’s Scouts. By E. Rodman.
62—The Luckless Trapper. By Wm. R. Eyster.
63—The Florida Scout. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
64—The Island Trapper. By Chas. Howard.
65—Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
66—Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
67—Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
68—Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.
69—The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
70—The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.
71—Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
72—Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
73—The Skeleton Scout. By Maj. L. W. Carson.
74—Little Rifle. By Capt. “Bruin” Adams.
75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. By “Bruin” Adams.
77—The Scarlet Shoulders. By Harry Hazard.
78—The Border Rifleman. By L. W. Carson.
79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. By R. Ringwood.
81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
83—The Specter Horseman. By Frank Dewey.
84—The Three Trappers. By Seelin Robins.
85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
86—The Hunter Hercules. By Harry St. George.
87—Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
88—The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
89—The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
90—The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
91—Star-Face, the Slayer.
92—The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
93—The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
94—Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
95—The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
96—The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
97—The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
98—Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
99—Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
100—Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
101—Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
102—Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
103—The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
104—Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
105—Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
106—The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
107—Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
108—The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
109—The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
110—Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
111—The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.
112—The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
113—Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
114—The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
115—The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
116—Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.
117—Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
118—Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
119—Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger.
120—Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
121—Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
122—Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
123—The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
124—Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
125—The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.
126—Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
127—Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
128—Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.
129—The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
130—Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.
131—Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
132—Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
133—The Lost Cache. By J. Stanley Henderson.
134—The Cannibal Chief. By Paul J. Prescott.
135—Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
136—Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
137—Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
138—Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
139—The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
140—The Border Renegade. By Badger.
141—The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
142—Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
143—Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
144—The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
145—The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
146—The Silver Bugle. By Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
147—Chinga, the Cheyenne. By E. S. Ellis.
148—The Tangled Trail. By Major Martine.
149—The Unseen Hand. By J. S. Henderson.
150—The Lone Indian. By Capt. C. Howard.
151—The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs.
152—Billy Bowlegs, The Seminole Chief.
153—The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robins.
154—Red Jacket. By Paul Bibbs.
155—The Jungle Scout. Ready
156—Cherokee Chief. Ready
157—The Bandit Hermit. Ready
158—The Patriot Scouts. Ready
159—The Wood Rangers.
160—The Red Foe. Ready
161—The Beautiful Unknown.
162—Canebrake Mose. Ready
163—Hank, the Guide. Ready
164—The Border Scout. Ready
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
Transcriber’s Notes
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—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.
—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
_underscores_.
—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.
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