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CHAPTER III.
THE CAPTIVES. – FRIENDS ON THE ALERT

Wearily passed the day to the captives; when night came down there seemed no sign of cessation from the toilsome march. On, still on, the column kept its way, until it was only an hour or so before midnight, that the savages gave signs that their resting-place was nigh. Then some of the younger braves began to stretch their wearied limbs, while Rutter looked eagerly around, striving, through the darkness, to see the various landmarks with which he was familiar. Though the renegade had said but little during the afternoon and evening, yet he ever rode near to the prisoners, keeping a watchful eye upon them. Now, as they came to a huge boulder, around which they were compelled to make a circuit, he ventured to inform the Major that they were near the end of the day’s journey, and that they would soon encamp for the night.

This intelligence, welcome as it was, elicited no remark from the captives.

At length the foremost of the file of warriors uttered a not unmusical grunt, expressive alike of satisfaction and intelligence. They were in a small timbered bottom, admirably suited for an encampment. It was toward this spot they had been aiming, through their hurried march.

Thomas Rutter, however, was not the first man to take advantage of the location. A party of red-men had evidently remained on the spot for some time, and the lodges which they had occupied were standing in a good state of preservation. One of the best of these Rutter immediately set apart for the reception of the captives. Two other huts remained, rather larger in size, though hardly as well constructed. These were made the headquarters of the chiefs; the braves were compelled to take up with beds on the bare ground, the sky their only roof.

After these dispositions had been made, Rutter sought out one of the older chiefs, and held an earnest consultation with him. During the course of the conversation, glances were more than once cast towards the hut, and then across the dimly lighted prairie. Pursuit was evidently feared, and the white man was asking the opinion of the chief, whether it would be safe, under the circumstances, to build a small fire. For some reason, best known to themselves, it was important that the Major and his daughter should be brought, safe and sound, to the land of the Blackfeet, and in order that this might be done, Rutter insisted that they should have some refreshment after eight hours travel without rest or food.

“The white brave may do as he pleases,” was the response of the red-man.

When Rutter entered the cabin, bearing a meal, plain, of course, and such as western men and western women are obliged to be content with, but abundant and substantial, there was actually an expression of benevolence on his countenance.

It is supposed by some that sorrow destroys the appetite. If such be the case, then were the prisoners not at grief’s lowest depth, for they did ample justice to the renegade’s preparations. Perhaps it was this that so far softened Robison’s heart as to enable him to speak to the man before him.

“Perhaps Rutter,” said he, “you can tell me what this thing is going to end in. You know well enough that I never had any difficulty with the tribe of which you are now, I suppose, a member. If every white man had treated the Indians in as fair a manner as I have, there would, or ought to be, a more friendly relation existing between the two races. I never was really in your region but once; and then the only harm done was shooting a deer or two and a grizzly. According to the best of my knowledge, no Blackfoot’s eye fell on me from the time I entered until the time I left their hunting-grounds.”

“Waal, Major, yer c’mencing to talk kind o’ sensible. I got nothin’ agin ye, an’ wouldn’t of myself a hurt ye; but I had my orders. If yer done as ye say, yer won’t be hurt, ner yer darter neither; if yer didn’t, it’ll be apt to be rough for both. I don’t want yer bad will, but what I done was all on account o’ justice.”

“I don’t really understand what you mean, but, if the tribe thinks I ever did it wrong, they are greatly mistaken. Can you give me any idea of the matter?”

“You’ll find that out soon enough. I got orders not to tell yer anything, but ye kin calculate on yer darter’s life bein’ safe, anyhow.”

“Thank Heaven for that. For myself I do not care. What I have done, I have done for her and her brother – her brother is safe; if she remains so, I am satisfied.”

The inside of the lodge presented a wild and picturesque appearance. Rutter was standing near the entrance, and the light from the torch which he held in his hand fell full upon his curiously-shaped head, bringing it out in all its strange oddity. The girl, young and fair, half reclined on a bed of skins, which formed part of the spoils of the Blackfeet in their late foray. The third one of the party stood in the shadow, so that his face could not be clearly seen, and his voice, when he spoke, was low and guarded.

“One more word with ye, Major,” continued Tom. “Don’t try to run away, fur you can’t do it. If ye do; I won’t be responsible fur yer safety. A chance shot in the dark sometimes goes home.”

“I make no promises, but so long as success seems improbable, I will not attempt anything of the kind.”

“Thar ar’ one thing. Ef ye git clar out o’ this it’ll be the best thing that could o’ happened to ye. It’ll pay.”

Muttering over the words, “it’ll pay,” he stuck the torch in a crevice, and left the lodge.

Stillness reigned within the rude cabin, and in half-an-hour father and daughter were buried in a profound sleep.

Outside all was silent. At different places around the camp, sentinels were placed – four in all – but these gave no cry, standing mute and grim, their forms scarcely to be distinguished in the dim gloom of night.

For some hours nothing of importance occurred, though the fleecy clouds scudding across the heavens were drawing more closely together, moved in darker and thicker procession. The wind, too, came sweeping along with a moist and dreary sound, that foretold an approaching storm. These threatening appearances could scarce escape the observation of the outposts, and their experienced eyes had clearly foreseen that a rain gust was fast coming.

The red-skins were not the only ones who foresaw the approaching storm. Hawkins and his party, some two miles distant, looked dubiously about, and making the best of an apparently bad bargain, prepared, in the absence of shelter, to submit to a drenching. Not exactly knowing in what place they were, they did not think of turning their footsteps in the direction of the deserted lodges, though they had doubtless been seen by some, if not all, of them.

“I say, Ned,” muttered Biting Fox, “ef the Major an’ his darter is dragged through this here rain, we mout as well pull horses an’ take back track. She won’t be likely to git over it; an’ ef one goes under you can bet the other will too.”

“Wait till it rains, will ye,” was the rather surly response. “Ef it rains hard forgit sights if they don’t find cover. I hain’t voyaged here so many years fur nothin’. I know Injun nature an’ Injun luck right up to the handle. Ef the Blackfeet hes the Major an’ Adele, an’ wants to keep ’em, jist bet yer back load o’ pelts, they’ll take ’em along slick an’ smooth, ef we don’t stop ’em.”

“Yaa’s, that’s ther ticket. Mules an’ Injuns hev good luck to pay ’em fur the hard licks everybody’s bound to give ’em. Meanwhile I wonder, now I’m thinkin’ of it, whar’s Jake. Nothin’ would do him but he must go on a lone scout, ’cause he felt copper-skins in his bones, an’ he must er fell in with these ’dentical cusses. Wish he was along agin. If he does blow like a tired buffalo, he’s some on a fight. Wonder what’s become of him?”

“Like enough he’s rubbed out,” remarked one, and the conversation ended.

But Jake Parsons was alive and well.

In our first chapter, we mentioned that Hugh Robison, when, to the eyes of the eager Indians he made his appearance, was accompanied by a companion, who was none other than Parsons himself.

Jake, by the way, was something of a character – characters are frequently met with in the far West. Though a painter might hope to convey a pretty fair idea of his face; an author could scarce hope to give a respectable description, for, but one distinctive feature could be mentioned, and that was hair. The hair on top of his head was long, but that on his face and chin was, if any thing, longer. A weather-beaten old hat, slouched over the whole, gave him a rather ruffianly appearance, utterly at variance with his real disposition. His voice was by no means unmelodious. As has already been hinted, he was somewhat addicted to “blowing;” but, fighting imaginary battles, as he sometimes did, he was not, for that, any the worse a fighter in the general scrimmage of an Indian melee. Self-reliant and courageous, he cared little for companions, and was willing at any moment to set out upon a trapping excursion into the very heart of the country of a hostile tribe. From such an expedition was he returning, when he fell in with Hugh, and was fortunately with him, when he ran so near a chance of being taken prisoner. Hardly had the excitement of retreat subsided, when the natural feelings of the young man began to find expression, he hardly thought of pursuit. The trapper, on the contrary, took a more philosophical view of the case, and in words well suited for the purpose, cheered up the young man’s spirits.

“I tell ye, Hugh, it ain’t as bad as it mout be. Neither on ’em’s hurt; they have a long journey afore ’em, an’ it’ll be darned queer ef we can’t git ’em out o’ bad hands afore they stop. When ye’ve seen as much as I hev, ye’ll not give in so soon to misfortun’!”

“But, what can we two do against so many?”

“Waugh! Don’t ye know that Jack Howell has seen ’em, an’ that Ned Hawkins will be on the trail afore to-morrow night. They’re in camp, not forty miles from here, and will scent the game right away. Ef we foller strait on ahindt – we’ll be in at the death, sure.”

“You know more about such matters than I do, and so I put myself in your hands. Do whatever you think best, and rest assured that I will aid you.”

“What do yer make out of that, yonder? It looks to me rather like a rise of smoke, though, they’d hardly be fools enough to light a fire.”

“It must be a cloud, and yet – ”

“Ef I’m mistaken, why then, may grizzlies eat me. They are a campin’ in them old lodges what the Crows left, when they war on a big buff’ler hunt up yonder. I know the lay of the land, fust rate, an’ ef you stay here, I’ll go ahead an’ reconnoiter a bit. I can’t tell exactly whether we kin do any good, but, I kin, when I see ’em once.”

“Remember to be careful. I would be but an infant here, without your advice and assistance.”

“In course, I will. I haven’t got sich a great desire to ’pear at a Blackfoot burnin’, so I’ll try to keep a sound scalp for some days to come. Lay low now, an’ ef any thing happens, you’ll soon know it, an’ clear out accordin’.”

In less than half-an-hour, the light-treading scout reappeared. He found Hugh standing on the spot where he had left him, though he had dismounted, and was allowing his horse to pick up such nourishment as he could find within reach.

“Waal, Hugh, I kinder guess we can’t do much to-night. They are just whar I thought they war, camped in the old lodges. I war in among ’em, an’ found the Major war in the middle wigwam; but, as thar war a copper-skin lyin’ right acrost the door, I didn’t think it advisable to try to git in.”

“You say that the prisoners are confined in the middle one of the three lodges, are you certain of this?” anxiously queried the young man.

“Purty much so. That war the one whar the guard war a lyin’ acrost the door, an’ at the other two, every one war on the inside. But then, thar ar half a dozen or so lyin’ around loose, so as it’s rather hard to get between ’em all.”

“Parsons, my mind is made up; I will see my father to-night. I do not entirely expect to rescue him, but I intend to see him, and, if I can, let him know that he has friends near, who will do all in their power to aid him. If I am discovered, I can but give you the same advice which you gave me a few minutes ago, make off in the dark.”

Astonishment at this foolhardy proposition for some minutes, as well it might, held the trapper speechless, but he finally recovered his breath sufficiently to exclaim:

“Why, bless yer innocent soul. Yer sure to be took and scalped. If ye had had all the experience in sich matters that I’ve had, I wouldn’t say you couldn’t do it, but, I’ve did it ’onct to-night, an’ I swar, I wouldn’t try it agin for any money. What ’ud I say to yer father, when he asked me whar Hugh war? D’ yr think I could tell him I let yer go, an’ get killed all for nothin’, in a place I wouldn’t venture myself?”

“I have no doubt but that you are sincere in what you say, and that I would be acting more prudently, as far as I myself is concerned, if I did not venture; but, I have made up my mind, and go I must, no matter what the consequences are.”

Further conversation was carried on, but finally, the trapper, finding that Robison was obstinately bent on going, and alone, reluctantly yielded his consent. He carefully explained how the camp was situated, and the sentinels located, cautioned him about being either too confident, or too timid, and then saw him depart with much solicitude, considering that he stood a very poor chance of ever seeing Hugh again.

“The young ’un,” he soliloquized, “comes from a good stock, and a plucky stock. It ain’t many of the old ’uns, even, as would dare to slide into a camp that way. I like the lad; but I’m pleased, somehow, that I ain’t along. Ef I war, we’d both loose top-knots, sure.”

Working swiftly but silently an opening, sufficiently large to permit his body to pass through, was soon made. With a long look around, in which, he held his breath, and listened intently, Hugh strove to discover whether, by any means, his presence had been suspected. All remained silent, and so he entered.

The smouldering remnants of a torch cast an uncertain light over the objects within, yet it was sufficient to see that the place was tenanted alone by those whom he sought.

Bending tenderly over his father, he looked in the face of the sleeper. Then he touched him on the shoulder, so lightly that it produced no more effect than to cause him to turn partly, and mutter in the uneasy manner of one who is disturbed in his slumbers. Hugh then laid his hand on the shoulder of his father, and giving him a shake, the Major awoke.

An exclamation trembled on his lips as he saw the dusky form at his bedside; but a hand was pressed, for an instant, tenderly but firmly upon his mouth; by the time the hand was removed, Hugh was recognized. The reader may imagine the surprise caused by his unexpected appearance. Both wore silent, the young man, anxious to learn what would be his father’s opinion concerning his act, the Major because he scarce knew what he ought to say. At length, in a low whisper, the latter spoke.

“Hugh, you grieve me! Misfortunes have come around sufficiently thick without this. You cannot possibly do good by this visit, and it will be a mercy if you can leave without notice. Indeed, how you were able to get here, without raising an alarm, I am unable fully to understand.”

“If I could come without being discovered, why may I not go away, and if I can escape, why may not Adele and yourself?”

“Do not count on such good fortune. I look farther ahead, and have a faint hope that all may yet turn out well.”

“Will you attempt it?” persistently continued Hugh. “The Indians, with all their boasted cunning, are not infallible, and my being here proves that. You must make up your mind soon, for every moment of delay endangers the success of the attempt.”

“Once for all, no!” answered the Major.

“Then I will leave this place, though I will not loose any chance of rescuing you.”

The young man silently wrung the hand of his father, and then approached the rude couch of his sister. The torch, which had faintly illuminated the tent on his first entrance, had died out, and barely sufficient light was left to enable him to find his way across the lodge. Hastily he bent down, and pressed his lips to the cheek of the sleeping girl, and then throwing himself upon the ground, he disappeared through the opening.

The heavens were even blacker than before, and the darkness was inky; so dark was it, that the lodges could not be seen at the distance of a yard, and Hugh was in a dilemma as to how he should proceed. Though he could take nearly the same route that he had followed in coming into the encampment, yet he could by no means be certain that he was in the right direction; and a deviation of a few yards might lead him into the arms of the enemy. Revolving in his mind, for a few minutes, the chances of escape, the path he must pursue, and looking behind him, Hugh assumed a stooping posture, and boldly pushed on, resolved to do his best, and, should it come to that, not to allow himself to be taken without a hard fight. His progress was difficult; more than once he felt inclined to rejoice that his father had refused to accompany him.

Perhaps two-thirds of the most dangerous part of the way had been passed over when a sound came to his ears, which seemed to be different from any made by wind or weather.

The “ugh” of a sentinel came to the ear of the listener, and then a reply was made, in the shape of a few words spoken – evidently by a different person – in the dialect of the tribe, with which he was but slightly acquainted. A short conversation took place between the two sentinels; the subject of it was the weather. An approaching storm was clearly foreseen, and, as the guard had but lately relieved – while Robison was in the inside of the lodge – and they would consequently be compelled to endure the inclemency of the weather, they seemed to be desirous, if not of seeking shelter, at least to seek solace in tobacco.

This subject being broached, a search was made for the materials, and then a dead silence, which was not of long duration, ensued. Unfortunately, neither of them possessed the desired weed. They listened attentively. No sound could be heard, though but a yard or two from them the heart of a white man beat loud and strong.

The savage with whom Hugh was contending, succeeded in grasping him by the throat. The young man made a fierce lunge with his knife, but it missed its mark, and the hold on his windpipe was gradually tightening. So far, the Indian had had no weapon in his hands; now, with the disengaged arm, he reached for his knife. He felt his physical superiority, and glorified in it.

The storm, which had been for so long rising, reached its culminating point, and now it burst over the encampment with a tenfold violence, on account of its delay. Just as the red-man was concentrating all his energies for a decisive effort, there came a blinding flash of lightning, revealing, with its lurid glare, the three lodges, the group of Indians, and the death-struggle taking place in the clump of bushes.

The grasp on the neck of young Robison relaxed, as the Indian, frightened by the glare of light, for a moment cowered back. That moment was his last. Even as the rolling burst of thunder came, the knife of Hugh Robison went to the hilt into his heart, and the warm life-blood came spurting out in a crimson tide.

“Whoop!” shouted Jake, divining that the thing was done, though he could not see it. “Go it, boys! Pitch into ’em, and hurrah for the Major.”

The rain came rushing down, and Jake, bound to do all the damage in his power, discharged his rifle in the direction of the group which he had seen. A wild cry told that the shot had taken effect, and, catching Hugh by the arm, he hurried him away from the spot. Through the trees and underbrush, crashing and tearing, the two rushed, the savages, recovered from their momentary panic, and understanding how few was the number of their opponents, following hard in their wake.

“Can you find your way?” hurriedly asked the trapper. “If you can, our best plan is to separate – one of us may escape; but this here way, we’re bound to be both of us taken.”

“All right! I think I can make it. If you think it’s best, cut loose, and take the chances.”

“Then here goes,” responded Jake, as he turned almost at right angles to their present course, leaving his companion to pursue his way alone.

The distance was but short, and soon he found himself within the limits of their camp, with his hand resting on the bridle of his steed.

“Safe at last!” he cried, and vaulted into his saddle. “Jake can take care of himself. It is a fearful night, but I must leave him; the blood-hounds may strike my track if I delay.”

With a cheer, expressive of delight and of defiance, he clapped spurs to his horse’s sides, and dashed away through the darkness, leaving his pursuers to give vent to their disappointment in the yells and curses. Tom Rutter listened for a moment, and then shouted out:

“There’s another one to look arter. Can’t ye tell that by the sound?”

Ned Hawkins and his party, in doubt as to what course they should pursue, were discussing the state of affairs when the first flash of lightning, and its attendant thunder-clap, came. As the rain rushed down, the five drew closer together, sheltering themselves, as much as possible, with their blankets. They had stood perhaps for a quarter of an hour exposed to the pitiless drenching of the rain, when Bill Stevens uttered a low, warning:

“Hush!”

All listened, and the sound of a horse, travelling at full gallop, was distinctly heard.

“By thunder! I ought to know that gallop,” whispered Stevens. “If that ain’t the Major’s bay mare, then may grizzlies eat me. It can’t be that one of them cussed Indians has her. I goes in for hailin’ ’em, and see. Ef it’s Injun its all right – we’re all near the Major. If it ain’t Injun, we’re all right anyhow, for it’s one of Robison’s family.”

The stranger was now so near that he seemed to be likely to run right upon them, if they did not give him notice of their presence; accordingly Ned Hawkins hailed him with:

“Who goes thar?”

A sound followed, as though the horse had been thrown violently back on its haunches, and the response came:

“A friend! Who are you?”

“Hurrah!” sang out Bill Stevens; “I know’d I was right. It’s Hugh Robison, on the little mare. We’re friends, too, so come along this way, and take care you don’t stumble over us. What in thunder are you doin’ here?”