The Yellow Chief Part 8

"That oughtn't to make any diffrence eyther," responded 'Lije. "Though I reck'n it will, when I've tolt ye who the attacktin party war, an' who led 'em. I've alser got on the trail o' that."

"Who? 'Rapahoes?"

"No."

"Tain't the direction for Blackfeet."

"Nor Blackfeet neyther."

"Cheyennes, then? I'll stake a bale o' beaver it's them same Injuns, in my opeenyun, the most trecher-most as scours these hyar perairies."

"Ye wouldn't lose yur skins," quietly responded 'Lije. "It air Cheyennes es hez done it."

"And who do you say chiefed 'em?"

"There's no need asking that," said one, "now we know it's Cheyennes.

_Who_ should it be but that young devil they call Yellow Chief? He's rubbed out more o' us white trappers than the oldest brave among 'em."

"Is it he, 'Lije?" asked several in a breath. "Is it the Yellow Chief?"

"'Taint n.o.body else," quietly declared the trapper.

The declaration was received by a perfect tornado of cries, in which curses were mingled with threats of vengeance. All of them had heard of this Indian chieftain, whose name had become a terror to trapperdom--at least that section of it lying around the head waters of the Platte and Arkansas. It was not the first time many of them had sworn vengeance against him, if he should ever fall into their power; and the occasion appeared to have arrived for at least a chance of obtaining it. The air and att.i.tude of 'Lije Orton led them to believe this.

All at once their mutual quarrels were forgiven, if not forgotten; and, with friends.h.i.+ps fresh cemented by hostility to the common foe, they gathered around the old trapper and his companion--first earnestly listening to what these two had still to tell, and then as earnestly giving ear to the trapper's counsels about the course to be pursued.

There was no question of their remaining inactive. The name of the Yellow Chief had fired one and all, from head to foot, rousing within them the bitterest spirit of vengeance. To a man they were ready for an expedition, that should end either in fight or pursuit. They only hesitated to consider how they had best set about it.

"Do you think they might be still around the wagons?" asked one, addressing himself to Orton.

"Not likely," answered 'Lije; "an' for reezuns. Fust an' foremost, thar war some o' you fellers, as pa.s.sed the karryvan yesterday, 'bout the hour o' noon. Ain't that so?"

"Yes; we did," responded one of the three trappers, who, standing silently in the circle, had not yet taken part in the hurried conversation. "We travelled along with them for some distance,"

continued the man, "and stayed a bit at their noon halting-place. We didn't know any of the party, except their guide, who was that Choctaw that used to hang about Bent's Fort. Waboga, the Indjens call him.

Well; we warned them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer 'un.

Like enough it's him that has betrayed them."

"Thet's been the treetor," said 'Lije. "Him an' no other; tho' it moutn't 'a made much difference. They war boun' to go under anyhow, wi'

Yellur Chief lookin' arter 'em. An' now, as to the lookin' arter _him_, we won't find him at the wagons. Knowin' you've kim on hyar, an'

knowin', as he's sartint ter do, thet thar's a good grist o' trappers at the Fort, he'll stay 'bout the plundered camp no longer than'll take him an' his party to settle up spoilin' the plunder. Then they'll streak it. They've goed away from thar long afore this."

"We can track them."

"No, ye can't. Leastwise, ef ye did, it woudn't be a bit o' use. This chile hev thort o' a shorter an' better way o' findin' out thar warabouts."

"You know where they are gone, 'Lije?" interrogated Black Harris.

"Putty nigh the spot, Harry. I reck'n I kin find it out, 'ithout much gropin'."

"Good for you, ole hoss! You guide us to thar swarmin'-place; an' ef we don't break up thar wasps' nest and strangle thar yellar hornet o' a chief, then call Black Harris o' the mountains a dod-rotted greenhorn!"

"Ef I don't guide ye strait custrut into thar campin'-place ye may call ole 'Lije Orton blinder than the owls o' a purairia-dog town. So git your things ready, boys; an' k.u.m right arter me!"

It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being revenged on the hated subchief of the Cheyennes--for deeds done either to themselves, their friends, or the comrades of their calling--beat high in every heart; and, in less than ten minutes' time, every trapper staying at Saint Vrain's Fort, with a half-score other hangers-on of the establishment, was armed to the teeth, and on horseback!

In less than five minutes more, they were hastening across the prairie with 'Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief.

They were only five-and-twenty of them in all; but not one of their number who did not consider himself a match for at least three Indians!

As for Black Harris, and several others of like kidney, they would not have hesitated a moment about encountering six each. More than once had these men engaged in such unequal encounters, coming out of them victorious and triumphant!

Twenty-five against fifty, or even a hundred, what signified it to them?

It was but sport to these reckless men! They only wanted to be brought face to face with the enemy; and then let their long rifles tell the tale.

It was a tale to be told, before the going down of the sun.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CAPTORS AND CAPTIVES.

Once more in the gorge, where the young Cheyenne chief and his band had encamped, before making attack upon the emigrant caravan.

It is the day succeeding that event, an hour before mid-day, with a bright sun s.h.i.+ning down from a cloudless sky. The stage is the same, but somewhat changed the characters who figure upon it, having received an addition of more than double the number. The Indians are there; but even they do not seem the same. From the quiet earnest att.i.tude of an expeditionary band, they have been transformed into a crowd of shouting savages.

Foxes before the quarry was run down, they are now ravening wolves.

Some are carousing, some lying on the gra.s.s in a state of helpless inebriety; while others, restrained by the authority of their chief, have kept sober, and stand guard over their new-made captives.

Only a few are needed for this duty. Three sentinels are deemed sufficient--one to each group; for the prisoners have been separated into three distinct parties--holding places apart from one another. The negroes, men, women, and children, driven into a compact ring, occupy an angular s.p.a.ce between two projections of the cliff. There, huddled together, they have no thought of attempting to escape.

To them their new condition of captivity is not so very different from that to which they have been all their lives accustomed; and, beyond some apprehension of danger, they have not much to make them specially discontented. The Indian who stands beside them, with the b.u.t.t of his long spear resting upon the turf, seems to know that his guard duty is a sinecure.

So also the sentinel who keeps watch over the white women--five in all, with about three times as many children--boys and girls of various degrees of age.

There is one among them, to whom none of these last can belong. She is old enough to be a wife; but the light airy form and virginal grace proclaim her still inexperienced in marriage, as in the cares of maternity. It is Clara Blackadder.

Seated alongside the others, though unlike them in most respects, she seems sad as any.

If she has no anxiety about the children around her, she has grief for those of older years--for a father, whom but a few hours before she had seen lying dead upon the prairie turf, and whose grey hairs, besprinkled with blood, are still before her eyes.

It is his scalp that hangs from the point of a spear, stuck upright in the ground, not ten paces from where she sits!

There is yet another group equally easy to guard; for the individuals composing it are all securely tied, hand, neck, and foot.

There are six of them, and all white men. There had been nine in the emigrant party. Three are not among the prisoners; but besides the white scalp accounted for, two others, similarly placed on spears, tell the tale of the missing ones. They have shared the fate of the leader of the caravan, having been killed in the attack upon it.

Among the six who survive are Snively, the overseer, and Blount Blackadder, the former showing a gash across his cheek, evidently made by a spear-blade. At best it was but an ill-favoured face, but this gives to it an expression truly horrible.