CHAPTER TWO.
THE SURPRISE AND COMBAT.
How frequently that "slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is observed in theaffairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronouncedthe words "All safe," when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloudof dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between thewigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on itswestward side.
The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely bysurprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he hadarrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although BaldEagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy.Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up,and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even timeto rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing inthe midst of the village.
The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is notour purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it inninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to sayhere that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were toomuch for their enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive themback towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddledtogether in terror.
Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim weregalloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance onthe part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallopstraight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharplyaside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows betweenthe undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen asthey sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who,observing the look, said:--
"I'm with 'ee, Whitewing, niver fear."
"Does my brother know that we ride to death?" asked the Indian in anearnest tone.
"Yer brother don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied the trapper, "and,considerin' your natur', I'd have expected ye to think that Manitoumight have some hand in the matter."
"The white man speaks wisely," returned the chief, accepting the reproofwith a humbled look. "We go in His strength."
And once again the latter part of the preacher's text seemed to shootthrough the Indian's brain like a flash of light--"looking unto Jesus."
Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt inaction. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and,having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even tospeak. He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to itsutmost speed, for every moment of time was precious. The saidhunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It hadbeen presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry insaving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extremedanger. It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, boresome resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans.
"It'll do some execution before I go down," thought Tim, as he regardedthe bright blade with an earnest look.
But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day.
In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which hadconcealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast aspossible until they reached the other side, whence they could see thecombatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts andyells of battle.
For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but theanimal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him.His companion's horse was also nearly unmanageable.
"My brother's voice is strong. Let him use it well," said the chiefabruptly.
"Ay, ay," replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; "goahead, my boy. I'll give it out fit to bu'st the bellows."
Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on hisprey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe.Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in itstone and character, and may be described as a compound of thesteam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about itintensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatantsheard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards themwith furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death.The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheerinsanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of aband just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken inrear. A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Timrepeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which hestyled his "little carving-knife." The Blackfeet turned and fled rightand left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups,as being the best way of baffling pursuit.
With that sudden access of courage which usually results from theexhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle's men yelled and gave chase.Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.
At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said--
"My braves, you are a parcel of fools."
Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purposeof collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weighand appreciate the compliment, he continued--
"You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases theleaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim--whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knifeis biggest of all--have come to our rescue _alone_. Whitewing tells methere is no one at their backs. If our foes discover their mistake,they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour onthemselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on _our_ heads,and overwhelm us by their numbers--for who can withstand numbers? Theywill scatter us like small dust before the hurricane. Waugh!"
The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a gooddeal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed "Waugh!" by whichthey meant to express entire approval of his sentiments. "Now it is mycounsel," he continued, "that as we have been saved by Whitewing, weshould all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say."
Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.
There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the youngchief on this occasion.
"Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom," hesaid, stretching forth his right hand, "has told you the truth, yet notquite the truth. He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I havecome to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone. It istrue that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitoubehind us--in front--around? It was Manitou who sent us here, and itwas He who gave us the victory."
Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but theywere not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red menare equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successesdirectly to their Creator.
"And now," he continued, "as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find outtheir mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore takeup our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet ourbrothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Ourband is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends,and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be morethan a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp withoutdelay."
The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this briefaddress, and the old chief again rose up.
"My braves," he said, "have listened to the words of wisdom. Let eachwarrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sunstands there."
He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about anhour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.
As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if bymagic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packin
g up goods, catchinghorses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size andstrength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.
"Follow me," said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest toobey the orders of the old chief.
"Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her," said Tim, with something like awink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his ownthoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strodeswiftly through the camp.
"Well, well," soliloquised the trapper as he followed, "I niver didexpect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind. He's or'narily sitch acool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you've much to answer for!"
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving hishorse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart fromthe rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at thetime the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking younggirl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, darkeyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any agebetween fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship,coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to suchan extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for anEgyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the factthat all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visageran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearlystamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easilyread.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gavethe two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned withequal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of thewrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch ofanxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It wasdispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed theyounger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt,unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work topack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid totie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
"I say, Whitewing," whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow,and glancing at the young woman with approval--for Tim, who was anaffectionate fellow and anxious about his friend's welfare, rejoiced toobserve that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty--"I say,is that her?"
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
"Is that _her_--_the_ girl, you know?" said Little Tim, with a series oflooks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
"She is my sister--Brighteyes," replied the Indian quietly, as hecontinued his work.
"Whew!" whistled the trapper. "Well, well," he murmured in anundertone, "you're on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Yethink yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the onethat he says he loves more nor life'll turn up soon enough, no doubt.But I'm real sorry for the old 'un," he added in an undertone, casting aglance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire inthe middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what wasgoing on. "She'll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The merejoltin' o' the nags 'ud shake her old bones a'most out of her skin.There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, butWhitewing'll niver do that. I know him better. Now then"--aloud--"haveye anything more for me to do?"
"Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses."
"Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes."
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey,the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief's reservewore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
"Mother," he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for theold creature was rather deaf, "we must fly. The Blackfeet are toostrong for us. Are you ready?"
"I am always ready to do the bidding of my son," replied this patternmother. "But sickness has made me old before my time. I have notstrength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It isbetter for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones."
"The young ones can take care of themselves," replied the chief somewhatsternly. "We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to liveas long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Oftenyou have carried me when I could not ride."
It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language,and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts hadbeen swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he wasaffected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the agedwas not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the suppositionof his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, hesaid nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start atonce.
The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her propositionwas not favourably received, began to obey her son's directions bythrowing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it underher chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet,wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large greenblanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad stripof deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journeylay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of thewood fire, and awaited her son's pleasure.
Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flightcarried into effect.
"We're all ready," said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam."Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an' a lot o' youngsterslookin' after them. All you want now is to get hold o' her, and be off;an' the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don't take long to getover scares an' find out mistakes. But I'm most troubled about the oldwoman. She'll niver be able to stand it."
To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed tobe taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised,having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian wasunder a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.
"Is my horse at hand?" asked Whitewing.
"Ay, down by the creek, all ready."
"And my brother's horse?"
"Ready too, at the same place; but we'll want another good 'un--for_her_, you know," said Tim suggestively.
"Let the horses be brought to my wigwam," returned Whitewing, either notunderstanding or disregarding the last remark.
The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusionthat his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made allneedful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while theIndian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood beforethe door, holding the bridles of the two horses.
Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third andsomewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.
"Ha! that's it at last. The horse for _her_," said the trapper tohimself with some satisfaction; "I knowed that Whitewing would haveeverything straight--even though he _is_ in a raither stumped conditionjust now."
As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at thedoor. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in hisown mind, set aside for "_her_," and vaulted into the saddle as a youngdeer might have done, had it taken to riding.
Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second timethat he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off thescent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skincurtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with abundle in his arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mountedhis somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware--fromcertain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among thefolds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his ar
ms!
"I say, Whitewing," he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle,which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, "most of the camphas started. In quarter of an hour or so there'll be none left. Don't'ee think it's about time to look after _her_?"
Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression--a lookwhich did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was ridingthrough the half-deserted camp beside him.
"Now, Whitewing," said the trapper, with some decision of tone andmanner, "I'm quite as able as you are to carry that old critter. Ifyou'll make her over to me, you'll be better able to look after _her_,you know. Eh?"
"My brother speaks strangely to-day," replied the chief. "His words arehidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by `_her_'?"
"Well, well, now, ye are slow," answered Tim; "I wouldn't ha' believedthat anything short o' scalpin' could ha' took away yer wits like that.Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to 'ee than life."
"That woman is here," replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glancedown at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast--"mymother."
"Whew!" whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed. Forthe third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had beenthrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, hewas no better than a "squawkin' babby."
But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have beenafter that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother,maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyesover the rolling prairie.
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