CHAPTER VI
CAPTURING AN INDIAN
Tim Reardon, a barefoot, sunburned urchin, who might be perhaps twelveyears old, judging from his diminutive figure, and anywhere from that tofifteen, by the shrewdness of his face, stood, with arms akimbo, gazingin rapturous admiration at a bill-board. It was a gorgeous and thrillingsight that met his eyes. Lines in huge coloured letters, extendingacross the top of the board, proclaimed the subject of the display:
Bagley & Blondin's Gigantic Circus Two Colossal Aggregations in One Stupendous--Startling--Scintillating Moral--Scientific Applauded by all the Crowned Heads of Europe.
The pictorial nightmare that bore evidence to the veracity of theseassertions was indeed wonderful and convincing. A trapeze performer,describing a series of turns in the air that would clearly take himfrom one end of the long bill-board to the other, was in manifestperil, should he miss the swinging trapeze at the finish of hisflight, of landing within the wide open jaws of an enormoushippopotamus--designated in the picture as, "The Behemoth of Holy Writ."An alligator, sitting upright, and bearing the legend that he was one ofthe "Sacred Crocodiles of the Nile, to which the Indian Mothers ThrowTheir Babes," was leering with a hopeful smile at the proximity of abe-spangled lady equestrian, balanced on the tip of one toe upon theback of a galloping horse.
The jungle element was generously supplied by troops of trumpetingelephants, tigers with tails lashing, bloated serpents danglingominously from the overhanging tree branches, while bands of lean andangular monkeys jabbered and chattered throughout all the picture.
Little Tim heaved a sigh.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to see that Royal Bengal tiger that ateup three of his keepers alive."
Little Tim, fired with the very thought, and emulative of an athlete indistorted attitude and gaudy fleshings, proceeded to turn himself upsidedown and walk upon his hands, waving his bare feet fraternally at thepictured gymnasts. He found himself suddenly caught by the ankles,however, and slung roughly across someone's shoulder.
"Hello, Tim," said his captor, good naturedly, "going to join thecircus?"
Little Tim grinned, sheepishly.
"Guess not, Jack," he replied. "Say, wouldn't you like to see that tigereat up a keeper?"
Jack Harvey laughed, setting Tim on his feet again.
"I'll bet that tiger isn't as great a man-eater as old Witham," he said."They put that in to make people think he's awful fierce, so they'll goto the show. You going?"
Tim Reardon, thrusting his hands into his pockets and closing hisfingers on a single five cent piece, three wire nails and a brokenbladed jack-knife, looked expressively at Harvey.
"I dunno," he replied. "P'raps so."
Jack Harvey took the hint.
"Come along with us," he said. "Where's the rest of the crew?"
"They're going--got the money," said Tim.
Harvey looked surprised. His crew, so called because the three othermembers of it besides Tim Reardon had sailed with him on his sloop inSamoset bay, were generally hard up.
"All right," said Harvey, "you can go with Henry Burns and George Warrenand me. Come on. Let's go down town and see the parade."
The blare of trumpets and the clashing of brass was shaking the verywalls of the city of Benton. A steam calliope, shrieking a tunemechanically above the music of the band and the roar of carts, wasfrightening farmers' horses to the point of frenzy. Handsome, sleekhorses, stepping proudly, were bearing their gaily dressed riders incavalcade. And the rumble of the heavy, gilded carts gave an undertoneto the sound. Bagley & Blondin's great moral and scientific show wasmaking its street parade, prior to the performance.
Tim Reardon stood between Henry Burns and Jack Harvey on a streetcorner, with George Warren close by. Tim Reardon's eyes seemed likely topop clean out of his head.
"There he is! There he is, Jack!" he exclaimed all at once, fairlygasping with excitement.
"Who is?" asked Harvey.
"The man-eating tiger," cried Tim. "It says so on the cage."
Harvey chuckled. "I'd like to throw you in there, Tim," he said. "He'dbe scared to death of you. Here's the real thing coming, though. Say,what do you think of that?"
The float that approached was certainly calculated to fire the brain ofyouth. On the platform, open to view from all sides, there was set up inthe centre the trunk of a small tree, to which was securely bound, byhand and foot, the figure of a huntsman, clad in garb of skins, buckskinleggings and moccasins. A powder horn was slung picturesquely from oneshoulder, and a great hunting-knife--alas useless to him now--stuckconspicuously in his belt.
Around this hapless captive there moved the figures of three savages,their faces streaked with various hues of paint, their war-bonnets ofeagles' feathers flaunting, and wonderful to behold. Each bore in hisright hand a gleaming tomahawk, which now and then was raised menacinglytoward the unfortunate huntsman. Again one would put his hand to hislips, and a shrill war-whoop would rival the screaming of the steamcalliope.
Close by, a wigwam, of painted skins thrown over a light frame-work ofpoles, added to the picture. At the entrance to this there stood now aman in ordinary dress, who thus addressed the crowd through a megaphone:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this historical representation which you now seebefore you is a scene from real life. It represents the perils of theplainsman in the midst of bands of cruel savages. It shows a captivebound to the stake and about to be put to torture. (Increased activityon the part of the Indians, and a suggestive squirming on the part ofthe prisoner.)
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this daring scout was one of General Miles's mosttrusted and heroic followers. (Name not mentioned.) He was captured bythese three chiefs, Leaping Panther, Crazy Bear and Red Bull--a kinsmanof the famous Sitting Bull--after one of the most desperate strugglesever known, and after twice disarming his adversaries and nearly killingthem all. (Revengeful gestures on the part of the three toward thecaptive.)
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the continuation of this thrilling adventure, therescue of this famous scout and the capture of Leaping Panther, CrazyBear and Red Bull, will be enacted under canvas at the great Bagley &Blondin moral and scientific show this afternoon and evening."
"Hi! yi!" yelled Little Tim, "Real Injuns, Jack. Look at the big one,with the red streak across his chin."
Tim's shrill voice rang out above the noise of the procession. Perhapsit may have penetrated, even, to the group upon the float; for, at thatmoment, the great chief, Red Bull--kinsman to the sittingvariety--turned and shook his tomahawk in the direction of the group ofboys. Little Tim squealed in an ecstasy of pleasurable alarm.
"Look out; he'll get you, Tim," said George Warren.
"Gee!" exclaimed Little Tim. "Bet I wouldn't like to be tied to thattree, though."
"Why not?" asked Jack Harvey, grinning at Tim's serious expression.
"Because, how'd I know they wouldn't forget some time and go ahead andreally scalp me? Oh, they might do it, all right. You needn't laugh. Iwouldn't like to be mas-sick-ered the way they were at that Fortsome-thing-or-other in the Last of the Mohigginses."
"Ho, you mean the 'Last of the Mohicans,'--the book I told you about,eh?" said Henry Burns--"all about Uncas and the rest."
"That's it," cried Little Tim. "Wouldn't I like to be Un-cuss, though,and scalp Red Bull."
"Fine!" laughed Henry Burns. "Come on, we'll go up to the circusgrounds."
To Little Tim the afternoon was one glorious dream; a dream throughwhich there pranced horses in bright trappings, ridden by be-spangledmen and women; chariots rumbled in mad races; bicyclists shot downfearful inclines; and the whole proceedings made glad to the heart ofthe youngster by the roaring of wild beasts.
The impending torture of Gen. Miles's scout was happily averted by thetimely arrival of a band of mounted soldiers, whose cracking rifles laidin the dust the painted warriors--barely in time to save Little Tim,also, from utter collapse. He emerged from the ten
t, some hours later,wild eyed; so freighted down with red lemonade and peanuts that ifdropped overboard he must surely have sunk without a struggle.
Evening came, and with it the night performance. Night found Little Timagain on the grounds. True, he had no money for a ticket, but it was adelight to wander about the grounds; to climb upon the great carts andbe chased off by angry circus men. The gaudy canvases, stretched hereand there, reminded him of what he had seen inside; and he eyed themaffectionately.
Once there was a thrill of excitement for him, when the Indian warriors,their evening act over, hurried past him in a group and disappearedwithin the opening of a small tent, on the outskirts of the grounds.
Time passed, and it had struck nine o'clock a half hour ago. The showwould be over in half an hour more. Young Joe Warren, who had seen themain circus in the afternoon and who was strolling in and about theside-shows, suddenly found himself accosted by Tim Reardon, who gaspedout a greeting as though the words choked him.
"Hello, Tim," replied Joe, eying him with astonishment. "Say, what's thematter? Any of the snakes got loose? You look as though they were afteryou."
Tim was breathless, sure enough, as though he were being pursued. Hisvery eyes seemed to have grown larger, and he was hardly able to standstill long enough to reply.
"Come on, Joe," he whispered. "I'll show you something. Better'n snakes,a big sight. Easy now, don't talk. Follow me."
Young Joe Warren, a boy slightly taller than Tim and perhaps a yearolder, ready at all times for a lark, followed his barefoot guide, buton the look-out, half suspecting it was one of Tim's tricks. Theythreaded their way through a maze of carts and circus paraphernalia, outto the edge of the grounds; past a line of small tents, used as theencampment of the performers, to a grove of maple trees skirting thefield.
"I say, Tim, what's up, anyway?" inquired Joe Warren presently. "Youneedn't think you can fool me--"
"Sh-h-h," warned Tim, turning and raising a hand to silence hiscompanion. "Here he is."
He took a few steps forward, grasped Joe Warren's arm, brought him to astand-still and pointed toward a figure that reclined upon a blanketspread beneath a tree.
"Well, what of it--what is it?" asked Joe Warren, "I don't see anythingbut somebody asleep."
Tim Reardon again gestured for silence and induced his companion toapproach nearer. Whereupon he pointed gleefully at the face of thesleeper. Young Joe, bending down softly, beheld the painted features ofthe great chief, Red Bull.
"Hmph!" he exclaimed. "It's only one of the Injuns. Saw 'em at the showthis afternoon."
Little Tim, in reply, seized Young Joe mysteriously by an arm, drew himaway a few paces and whispered something, excitedly.
Young Joe gave a subdued roar.
"Cracky!" he cried, doubling up. "Tim, you're the craziest youngster.What put it into your head? We couldn't do it."
"No, you and I couldn't," answered Tim; "but the whole of us could--JackHarvey and Henry Burns, and the rest of the fellers. Gee! Joe, justthink of it. A real live Injun--a live one-'twould be just like the Lastof the Mohigginses."
"What would we do with him if we got him?" asked Joe.
"Nothin'," replied Little Tim--"Oh, yes, we could,--take him off upstream to the camp and--dance 'round him, like they do in the show."
"Come on," said Joe Warren. "Let's find Jack and Henry Burns andGeorge. They won't do it, though."
If one could have seen Henry Burns's eyes twinkle, when they had foundthe three a few moments later, however, they would have thoughtdifferently.
"Tim, you're all right," he said. "But how could we get him away fromhere?"
"Why, get the wagon," said Young Joe. "Come on, George, will you? I'llgo down to the house for it, if you'll join. 'Twon't take more'n half anhour. You find Tom and Bob; they're 'round somewhere. Then wait heretill I come back."
Young Joe, reading a half consent in his elder brother's hesitation,darted away. George Warren was not keen for it, however.
"Tim, you and Joe are a couple of young idiots," he exclaimed. "We'renot going to do any such fool thing as that. We couldn't do it, in thefirst place."
"Yes we can," argued Little Tim. "He ain't got his tomahawk nor anyscalping knife. And he ain't very much bigger than Jack."
Harvey drew himself up and felt of his muscle.
"Tom and Bob could lick him, without the rest of us," continued LittleTim.
Tom and Bob, who had been added to the group, likewise flexed theirbiceps and thought how strong they were.
"I ain't afraid," said Harvey.
"Nor I," said Tom and Bob, respectively.
Thus they argued. A half hour went by, and the band inside the tent wasmaking loud music as a youth darted up to them, out of breath withrunning.
"Come on," cried Young Joe, softly. "I've got the wagon over back in thegrove, and some ropes, and some cloth. Come and take a look."
To look was to yield. The sleeping, snoring figure of the great chief,Red Bull, gave no signs of suspicious dreams when, some moments later, aband of boys approached noiselessly the place where he lay. The momentcould not have been timed more opportunely for success. The circus wasabout breaking up for the night, and the great tent was buzzing andresounding with noise.
A half dozen figures suddenly sprang forward upon the slumberingchieftain. The arms of the dread Red Bull, seized respectively by JackHarvey and Tom Harris, were quickly bound behind him. A light rope,wound securely about his ankles by George Warren, and made fast insailor fashion, rendered him further helpless; while, at the same time,a long strip of cloth, procured by Young Joe for the purpose, andswathed about his head, stifled his roars of rage and fright. Red Bull,the great Indian chief, the terror of the plains, was most assuredly acaptive--an astounded and helpless Indian, if ever there was one.
Borne on the sturdy shoulders of his pale-face captors, Red Bull, boundand swathed, uttering smothered ejaculations through the cloth, wasconveyed to the waiting wagon and driven away.
A little less than an hour from this time there arrived at the shore ofMill Stream a strange party, the strangest beyond all doubt that hadcome down to these shores since the days when the forefathers of circuschiefs had skimmed its waters in their birch canoes, carrying theircaptives not to pretended but to real torture.
Two canoes, brought down from an old shed, were launched now and floatedclose to shore. Into one of these was carried the helpless and enragedRed Bull, where he was propped up against a thwart. In front of him, onguard, squatted Little Tim. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns took theirplaces, respectively, at stern and bow, equipped with paddles. Thesecond canoe was hastily filled with the four others. They made a heavyload for each canoe, and brought them down low in the water.
"Easy now," cautioned Tom Harris, as the party started forth. "We'rewell down to the gunwales. No monkeying, or we'll upset."
They proceeded carefully and silently up stream, with the moon coming upover the still water to light them on their way.
A mile and a half up the stream, they paused where a shabby structure ofrough boards, eked out with odds and ends of shingle stuff, with a rustyfunnel protruding from the roof, showed a little back from shore, on acleared spot amid some trees.
"Here's the camp," cried Harvey; and they grounded the canoes within itsshadow.
The chief, Red Bull, clearly not resigned to his fate, but squirminghelplessly, was conveyed up the bank and set down against a convenientstump. The canoes were drawn on shore, and the party gathered about him.
"What are we going to do with him, anyway, now we've got him?" inquiredGeorge Warren.
"Oh, he's got to be tried by a war council," said Henry Burns; "and allof us are scouts, and we've got to tell how many pale-faces he'sscalped, and then he's got to be sentenced to be put to torture andscalped and--and all that sort of thing. And then we'll dance around himand--and then by and by--well, I suppose we'll have to let him go. Idon't know just how, but we'll arrange that. But we've got to have afire first,
to make it a real war council."
They had one going shortly, down near the shore, and casting a weirdglare upon the scene.
After a preliminary dance about their captive, in which they lent colourto the picture by brandishing war-clubs and improvised tomahawks, theysat in solemn council on the chief.
"Fellow scouts," said Henry Burns, addressing his assembled followers,"this is the great Indian chief, Magua, the dog of the Wyandots--"
"Whoopee!" yelled Little Tim, "that's him. He killed Un-cuss, didn't he,Henry?"
"The brave scout has spoken well," replied Henry Burns. "This is thecruel dog of the Wyandots; slayer of the brave Uncas; shot at byHawkeye, the friend of the Delawares--"
"I thought you said he killed him--in the book," cried Little Tim.
"Shut up, Tim," said Joe Warren.
"He's alive again," declared Henry Burns, solemnly. "He was onlywounded.
"Here is the cruel Huron," continued Henry Burns, "delivered into ourhands by that daring scout who knows no fear."
Little Tim grinned joyously at this praise from his leader.
"What shall we do with our captive?" solemnly inquired Henry Burns."Shall we show mercy to the slayer of the brave Uncas? Shall we be womenand let him go, to roam the forests and ravage the homes of oursettlers, or shall he be put to death?"
"He must die," growled Scout Harvey. "The daring leader has spoken well.Is it not so, men?"
The doom of Red Bull, otherwise Magua, the dog of the Wyandots, wasdeclared.
The death of the captive followed swiftly--in pantomime--the bravescouts, under the leadership of Henry Burns, performing a series ofdances about the helpless one, accomplishing his end with imaginarytomahawk blows.
"Now he must be scalped," said Henry Burns. "What say you, men, shall wecast the lot to see who takes the scalp of Magua, the great chief of theHurons?"
It was done. The short stick was drawn by Little Tim--to hisinexpressible joy.
"Take the scalping-knife, brave scout," said Henry Burns, handing him ahuge wooden affair, whittled out for the purpose. "The scalp of Maguathe chief shall hang at the cabin of Swift Foot, the scout who capturedhim."
Swift Foot advanced to perform the last act in the drama. It was a weirdand dreadful moment. The fire-light cast its flickering glow upon thedoomed chief, his captors and the executioner. The form of Magua wasseen to quiver, as though life was indeed not all extinct.
Swift Foot performed his grim office with a flourish. The woodenscalping-knife descended upon the gorgeous head-piece of the victim,which the scout grasped with his other hand and pulled as he drew theknife.
But at this moment the form beneath the knife wriggled in the hands ofthe executioner; lurched to one side, and the head-piece fell away, sotrue to life that an involuntary shudder went through the group, asthough the act had really been accomplished. The flaunting head-piece ofeagle feathers fell indeed away, clutched in the hand of Little Tim.And, at the same instant, by some loosening of the cloth, that, too,dropped down, freeing the jaws of the Indian chief.
To their amazement, the fire-light shone now not on the straight blackhair of an Indian, but upon a towsled top-knot of unmistakable red.While from the parted lips of the figure there issued a sound that wasnot of the child of the forest.
"Tim Reardon, yer little divvle," cried the victim, glaring at theastounded youth with unfeigned rage, "it's yerself I'll be takin thehair off--yer little scallerwag--an the hide of yer, too. Sure an ye'llbe doin some lively dancin' around when I git me two hands on yer.Scoutin' is it ye'll be doin? I'll scout ye and the likes of all er ye.Lemme go, I tell yer,--"
The scalping knife dropped from the palsied hand of Swift Foot, thescout. He stood, glaring wildly at the outraged captive.
"Danny O'Reilly!" he exclaimed, gasping for breath. "Oh, gimminycrickets!"
"Yes, an it's Danny O'Reilly that'll be scalpin' ye all over from headto foot to-morrow," cried the captive, wriggling in his bonds. "Lemmeout er this, I tell yez. Sure an I've got a hand out now, and in aminnit I'll be showin' the likes of ye what it is to take an honest manaway from his job with the circus."
True enough, in some way, by his wriggling, Danny O'Reilly was rapidlyemerging, not only from his disguise as an Indian chief, but from hisbonds as well. Panic seized upon the brave scouts--a panic born of dreadof what might be in store in days to come. There was a rush to thecanoes; a hasty scrambling aboard; a frenzied launching of the craft,and an ignominious flight from the place of execution.
Five minutes later, one walking the highway leading up from Benton mighthave beheld a strange figure, striding in to the city, breathing wordsof wrath upon the night air; a figure clad in Indian finery, butbearing the likeness beneath his war-paint of Daniel O'Reilly, astalwart labourer of Benton, for the time being a valuable accession tothe Bagley & Blondin great moral and scientific show.
The Rival Campers Ashore; or, The Mystery of the Mill Page 6