The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “Let me examine it. Perhaps you made some blunder.”

  “No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

  I took the rifle, with a smile of certainty that I should find something the matter with it. Sure enough the muzzle was crammed with paper, and upon removing it, a pipestem, broken in pieces, rolled out, while there was not a grain of powder in the barrel.

  “I declare, I forgot about the powder!” exclaimed Nat, opening his eyes in wonder.

  “But not about the bullet,” I laughed, pointing to the fragments of his pipe.

  “How’d that get there?” he angrily asked.

  “That’s the question.”

  “I didn’t put it there.”

  “Who did, then?”

  “I don’t know, I declare.”

  Nat picked up the fragments and examined them carefully.

  “That’s my pipe sure; and I had it in my mouth, I remember when I started out, and missed it coming back. I didn’t put it in the gun though.”

  “Let it pass then. Did you see no more of your Indian friend?”

  “No; he knew enough to keep out of my way. I waited a long time for him, and at last started home again. I kept an eye on every suspicious object, but as I just said, seen nothing.”

  At this point I gave free vent to my pent-up mirth. Nat, much astonished, looked wonderingly at me, seemingly at a loss to understand the cause.

  “I do not see what there is to laugh at,” he remarked, reprovingly.“If it’s a laughing matter to know that there are Injins all about you, why you must laugh.”

  “Your adventure with the Indian, Nat, and the singular load in your rifle appears to me to be a funny matter, and I trust you will pardon me if—”

  “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t put it in there? It was the Injin’s work.”

  And to this day Nat cannot be made to believe that he was instrumental in introducing the pipe into his gun.

  After a few more unimportant remarks, the conversation ceased. Nat’s adventure began to appear to me in a different light from that in which I had viewed it at first. I doubted not but that he was perfectly honest and truthful in what he said. But why, when exposed to the will of the savage, did he escape unscathed? Why did the latter stand fearless and harmless before him? And what meant these strange signs, these “footprints,” which were becoming visible around us? Matters were assuming a puzzling form. We were being environed by Indians without any evidence of hostility upon their part. What meant it? Surely there was a meaning too deep and hidden for us to divine as yet.

  Suddenly Nat spoke.

  “Don’t you remember the canoe? We were going to hunt for that today!”

  “Ah! how did I forget that? But had we not better wait till Biddon returns?”

  “No; let us go at once. Hark! what’s that?”

  I held my breath, as the distant report of a rifle reached our ears. The next instant came a sound, faint and far away yet clear and distinct—a horrid, unearthly sound, as the cry of a being in mortal agony!

  CHAPTER VI

  Still in the Dark—The Canoe Again

  For a moment we stood breathless, paralyzed and speechless. Then our eyes sought each other with a look of fearful inquiry.

  “Was that Biddon’s voice?” I asked, in a faint whisper.

  “I don’t know. There it is again!”

  And again came that wild, howling shriek of such agony as made our blood curdle within us.

  “It is his voice! Let us hasten to his aid,” I exclaimed, catching my rifle, and springing out. Nat followed closely, his gun having been reloaded. The cry came from up the river and toward it we dashed, scrambling and tearing through the brush and undergrowth, like two maddened animals, heedless of what the consequence might be. Several times we halted and listened, but heard nothing save our own panting breasts and leaping hearts. On again we dashed, looking hurriedly about us, until I knew we had ascended as high as could be the author of that startling cry. Here we paused and listened. No one was to be seen. I turned toward Nat, standing behind me, and directly behind him I saw Biddon slowly approaching.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he asked, as he came up.

  “Was not that your voice which I just heard?”

  “I rather reckon it wan’t. When you hear Bill Biddon bawl out in that way, jist let me know, will yer?”

  “What under the sun was it?” I asked then, greatly relieved.

  “That’s more nor me can tell; but shoot and skin me, if I can’t tell you one thing;” he approached closely and whispered, “there’s sunkthin else nor reds about yer.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, although I understood well enough what he meant.

  “I’s here once afore, as I told yer, and I never heerd sich goin’s on then. I’ve seed the tracks of moccasins all about the traps, but can’t draw bead on the shadder of a redskin.”

  “You heard that horrid howl, didn’t you?”

  “Heerd it! I should think I did.”

  “Was it you who shot?”

  “Yes; the way on it was this: I got on a purty plain trail and follered it up hereabouts, when I cotched the glimpse of a Blackfoot’s feather goin’ down through the bushes there, and blazed away at him. I never missed a red in my life, and I didn’t miss him. Howsumever, he didn’t mind it, but kept on and got away, and jist as he went out of sight that orful yell come. It didn’t seem that he made it, but sounded like as though ’twas all about me, above and under the ground, and around and behind me.”

  “Anywhere near us?” asked Nat.

  “It sounded jist under your feet about.”

  “Jerusha!” exclaimed the affrighted Nat, as he sprang nervously toward me.

  “It must have been the Indian, surely, who made that yell,” said I.

  “In course; though things are beginnin’ to look qua’rish to me.”

  The same look of uneasiness again passed over the trapper’s face; and I saw that although he strove to hide it, he was by no means at rest. Matters were beginning to put on an unusual aspect, and that was the reason. Give the trapper of the northwest flesh and blood to contend against, let him know that nothing supernatural is arrayed against him, and he is the last man in the world to yield an inch. But the moment he sees something unexplainable to his simple mind, (and the trapper is a credulous being), his courage deserts him. He believes that other spirits than those of men visit this earth, and they are his greatest horror.

  “Les’ go home; there’s Injins all around us,” pleaded Nat.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because I seen one myself.”

  Biddon looked inquiringly at me, and, deeming it best, I related the incident given in the preceding chapter. I saw at once his uneasiness was increased.

  “Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” he angrily asked of Nat.

  “Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” queried Nat, in turn.

  “I did—hit him fair and square as I ever hit anything.”

  “But didn’t do any more good than I did.”

  “I made the infarnal imp howl.”

  “And I made mine grunt,” added Nat, triumphantly.

  “There is no need of words,” I interposed. “Each of you did your best, Nat included. You, Bill, I believe, hit your man and mortally wounded him. That yell was of agony, though I can’t conceive how we came to mistake it for yours. The dead or dying body of that Indian, I believe, is near at hand. See! what does that mean?” I asked, as I detected some red fluid dripping from the limb of a bush to the earth. The trapper stepped forward and looked at it.

  “That’s the blood of a Blackfoot, or I’m a skinned beaver!” he remarked, with a glow of relief at having those strange apprehensions of his removed.

  “Yes, I’m convinced that’s Injin blood,” added Nat, rubbing it between the tip of his finger and thumb. “The blood of a Blackfoot Injin, too—a man’s about thirty-two years old. Probably a brother to the one I frightened.”

  “What d
o you know about that?” I asked.

  “Oh! it’s only a supposition of mine.”

  “Biddon, I believe, as I just said, that we will find the body of that savage near at hand. Let us follow it.”

  “Jes’ what I’s agoin’ to do,” he replied, starting off at once upon the trail.

  It was easy to follow, as every step was marked by blood, which, in many places, was dripping from the bushes to the ground. It was followed but a short distance, however, as it led in a direct line to the river.

  “It’s as I s’pected,” said Biddon, turning round in disgust.

  “He must have drowned then.”

  “Dunno ’bout that. He’s taken to the water to hide his trail, an’ jes’as like as not some of the other painted heathen have helped him off.”

  “No doubt about that. I’ve been thinking that some of them helped off that fellow when I was loading my gun.”

  “We mought as well go back agin,” said Biddon. “I’m tired of huntin’spirits, and I dunno but what we’d better move traps and leave this plagued place to ’em.”

  “That’s what I am in favor of—”

  Nat suddenly paused, for Biddon, with a slight “sh” motioned us down. We both sank quickly and silently to the earth, while he, in a crouching position, gazed stealthily up-stream.

  “What is it, Bill?” whispered Nat.

  “There’s a canoe comin’ down stream!”

  We said nothing; and Nat looking meaningly in the water.

  “Skin me, if there ain’t two reds and a squaw in it,” added Biddon, without changing his position, or removing his gaze.

  I could not restrain the singular agitation that came over me at this announcement. Fearing to betray myself, I cautiously arose beside Biddon.

  “Let me take a look,” I whispered.

  “Be keerful you ain’t seen,” he whispered, in turn, as he stepped back.

  As I looked, I saw, not more than two hundred yards distant the canoe approaching, heading directly towards us. For this reason, I could only see the foremost Indian, though I was positive another, together with the white captive, were in it. I gazed but a moment and then looked inquiringly at the trapper. He made no reply, but again peered forth.

  “That ain’t a squaw; it’s a white gal,” said he, looking round upon us with an astounded look.

  “Shall we rescue her?” I asked.

  “Ef she wants us to, in course.”

  “You going to shoot them?” asked Nat, anxiously.

  “Can’t tell yit. Jest see that yer irons is ready, and we’ll wait till they get out yer. Don’t make no noise till I give the motion.”

  The trapper stole a yard or two in front of us, where he sank softly down upon his face until only his head was visible. Nat fingered his gun nervously beside me, while I, not a whit less agitated, waited for the canoe to appear through the interstices of the bushes in front.

  In a moment, I heard the faint ripple of an oar, and saw the trapper slowly raising his head and bringing his rifle in front of him. He raised his hand warningly for us to remain quiet until the moment should arrive. I heard the click of my companion’s gun, as he raised the hammer, and admonished him to be careful.

  Suddenly, I saw the red head-dress of one of the savages glittering through the bushes, and, before I could speak, came an explosion beside me like the crash of a thunderbolt. Almost simultaneously, the herculean frame of the trapper bounded over me, and he exclaimed:

  “Who fired that? I’m shot.”

  Nat and I sprang to our feet and dashed after him; but as I turned, though bewildered with excitement, I looked at the spot where the canoe was seen. It was gone!

  We dashed up the bank, and in a moment reached Biddon. The excitement had completely gone, and he stood coolly feeling his ear.

  “Was that your gun, Jarsey?” he asked.

  “No, sir; mine is still loaded.”

  “How is yours, Greeny?”

  Nat lifted his, examined the lock and looked into the barrel. He had indeed discharged it, grazing the trapper’s head so closely as to wound his ear.

  “Wonder if that was my gun? Sure, I believe it was,” he remarked, still looking into the barrel.

  “Was it your gun?” repeated the trapper, his brow darkening like a thunder-cloud, and laying his hand upon his knife-handle, as he approached. Nat looked up and started as he saw his visage fairly gleaming with passion.

  “I didn’t shoot it, Bill, by thunder!” he expostulated.

  The face of the trapper changed. It grew paler, and the dark cloud fled from it. He replaced his drawn knife. He believed the words of Nat.

  Matters were approaching a crisis. The recent startling events had their effect upon us all. The trapper avowed he could not stand “sich goin’s on,” and should leave for some other quarters. Little sleep came to Nat at night. His adventure with the savage, and the more recent occurrence alarmed him. He had discovered that there were consequences to be feared from both sides.

  I was still unwilling to believe that there was anything in the events given which would not soon be explained. It was evident our foes were around, and from some inexplicable cause, had pursued an unusual course toward us. We had all been exposed to their power, and had yet escaped harmless. What was the meaning of this? And, above all, what was the object of the appearance and disappearance of the canoe at the different times mentioned? Who could be that fair being of whose existence I only was as yet aware?

  These questions, prompted only my anxious curiosity and desire to learn more of that mysterious being whom I had now twice seen. I ridiculed the ideas of Biddon, and Nat strove hard to convince him that he was not afraid. Biddon, consented to remain until more was learned, intimating at the same time, that it must be very soon. He visited the horses each day, and found them undisturbed. This, however, only added to his anxiety. Had they been gone he would have taken it as convincing evidence that bona fide Indians were in the neighborhood.

  The next day, after the closing scene of the last chapter, Nat agreed to accompany me for the last time to the spot where we had seen the canoe. The trapper could not be prevailed upon to go, affirming that he should probably have his hands full at home. It required my utmost skill to succeed with Nat, as the horror had plainly settled upon him.

  “It’s awful!” said he, as we started, “this walking right into danger, but I want to see that canoe agin, but especially that gal, and so I’ll go.”

  “And, I trust, behave yourself. You well know, Nat, you fired that shot which came so near ending Biddon’s life.”

  “Wonder if I did pull the trigger!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping and looking round at me.

  “You know you did, and had he known it, too, it would have been a sorry piece of business for you. That temper of his is terrible, when it is once excited.”

  “I remember cocking my gun, and kind of pulling the trigger, but I didn’t mean to pull hard enough to make it go off.”

  “I suppose not. I cannot conceive how Biddon persuaded himself to believe that you did not discharge it when the case was self-evident. But he is willing to believe almost anything since he has started.”

  “He shouldn’t have gotten before my gun, for he knows my hand sometimes trembles.”

  “I trust you will be able to control it this time.”

  “No doubt of that; but, then, I’d advise you, as a friend, not to get before me, especially if you see the canoe coming.”

  I assured him that I should not, and we kept upon our way. Upon each of the occasions before, as near as I could judge, it was about noon that the canoe made its appearance; and, as it was that time now, we hurried forward, lest the opportunity should pass. The opportunity, I say—for, although it had appeared but twice as yet, I somehow or other was well satisfied we should see it again.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Nat.

  “It will depend upon what we see. If simply those two savages with the captive, as we judge her to b
e, are in the canoe, and no demonstration is made, I think it best not to attempt a rescue. It is only a supposition of ours that she is a captive, and we know not that she would thank us for interfering in her case.”

  In a short time we reached the elevation already mentioned. Here we seated ourselves so as to remain concealed from any stragglers in the vicinity, while we ourselves with a little care could detect the slightest object passing. As I stooped, my hand came in contact with something cold, and upon looking at it, I saw it covered with dark clotted blood. I started, and wiped it on the grass, but it sent a shudder through me to reflect that it had once been the life-fluid of a human being.

  “Ugh!” exclaimed Nat; “ain’t that awful?”

  “It is disagreeable, to say the least.”

  “Just look at the blood on the grass, too, and all around. I believe Bill must have hit a half-dozen Injins sure, the way things appear here.”