Rube drew his revolver, but did not shoot. He used the weapon only as a club with which to defend himself, while he sheltered his body from the assault by crouching low, with his back wedged in a cleft of rock.
The eagle pursued him there and glared at him menacingly. He had what he afterwards called a grand sight of the bird's wonderful clear eyes, its hooked beak, and its wicked-looking claws, and he marvelled at the enormous stretch of its pinions.
Once it made a dash at him, spreading itself close against the wall of rock, covering him like a cloak. He thrust out his free hand to grab at one of its legs, but, missing the leg, he seized hold of its tail, pulling out three of the long white plumes. He crouched still closer in his shelter, where neither beak nor talon could touch him. And soon the eagle drew off.
When at length he raised his head to investigate, he saw the two birds rising through the misty air and flying off together over the mountains.
Rain was now falling heavily, and the mist was thickening. He heard the whisper of the mountain streams growing louder and louder until it became a deep, prolonged murmur. Quite near to him a torrent of brown, foaming water was rushing and leaping down the steep.
Rube knew it would be futile to attempt to return to camp before daybreak. He judged that Kiddie would understand his absence and not worry unduly. So he ate what food he had brought in his haversack, and, regardless of the driving rain, curled himself up to try to sleep.
Once during the long, uncomfortable night he heard from afar, or fancied that he heard, Kiddie's familiar, penetrating whistle. He knew that his own comparatively feeble whistle in response would not carry far enough to be even faintly heard. There were no means by which he could send back an answering signal. No fire smoke or fitful glow could be seen, no cry or call be heard.
Later in the night, when the moon broke through the clouds, he again very faintly caught the sound of Kiddie's whistle; so faintly that he could not distinguish the notes which he believed were being sent forth as a message in the Morse code.
Rube held his breath and listened; but all that he heard now to break the silence of the vast desolation was the weird howl of some far away koshinee—the dreaded buffalo wolf of the prairies.
When the rain had ceased, and the black mountain peaks could be seen against the lesser blackness of the sky, he still thought it prudent to remain where he was.
One of the last things that Kiddie had said to him was: "Be careful. Don't hurry; don't worry," and, rather than risk a climb up the wet and slippery rocks, he again curled himself up and closed his eyes in sleep.
The red dawn was breaking when he awoke shivering with cold. His buckskin clothes were wet and clammy, and his limbs were stiff.
He sat up and looked about him.
The two eagles had returned and were exactly as he had seen them at first, the male keeping sentry on the point of rock above his nested mate. The mountain torrents still babbled. On the farther side of the cañon was a beautiful waterfall as white as chalk against the indigo darkness of the cliff down which it leapt into the unseen depths. The jagged shapes of the mountains were now exceedingly clear, showing alp above alp into the far blue distance.
Rube was excessively hungry. And there was nothing for him to eat, unless indeed he had chosen to make a meal of a fragment of rabbit flesh that had fallen from the eagles' nest.
"Wonder what Kiddie's havin' for breakfast!" he said to himself longingly. "Fried kidney, I expect, outer that stag he shot. Guess he'll be worryin' some 'bout my not bein' back in camp yet. I'd best quit an' get back right away. No; I ain't goin' back the way I come. I'm figurin' as th' easiest an' safest way's ter climb up higher an' then make tracks across Lone Wolf Mountain an' down to the lake. That's what Kiddie'd do, I reckon."
He looked upward, calculating his direction. Before he moved away he picked up his eagle plumes. He had been lying on them; their feathering was ruffled and their quills were fractured. Still, they were worth preserving as trophies of his adventure.
The ascent of the cliff was not difficult, though at first he made two or three awkward slips on the wet moss and lichen. After a while the climbing became quite easy, and he reached the rounded shoulder of Lone Wolf Mountain without difficulty. Here, however—as Kiddie afterwards discovered—he was obliged to make a long detour in order to get to the farther side of the mountain.
Rube started off at a brisk walk, and was in hopes of reaching camp early in the forenoon. The wild desolation of these mountain heights oppressed him. So much so that he was startled by the cry of a jay.
He looked round, thinking it strange that such a bird should live here—here, where there were no trees and none of the smaller animals for a jay to kill and feed upon.
As he turned, he saw a movement beside an outcropping rock. At the same instant something like the buzz of a large insect sounded close over his head. He saw an arrow strike the ground and remain upright, trembling with the impact.
Rube knew now the meaning of the jay's cry. It was not the cry of a bird, but the signal call of an Indian.
He started to run in his original direction, but he had not gone more than a hundred yards when another arrow struck his cap, taking it off. He staggered, then, taking a new direction, ran a few strides, then stopped in hesitation, seeing an Indian rise to his knees, fixing an arrow to his bowstring.
With a quick glance Rube realized that he was surrounded, and that there was no way of escape, no shelter of any sort on the barren mountain side. He drew his revolver as the Redskins closed in upon him.
Just as he was about to press the trigger, he reflected upon the inevitable consequences. They would capture him in any case; he could not escape. But if he killed one of their tribe they would torture him to death; whereas, if he quietly submitted, there would still be a chance of his being set free and unharmed.
The Indians had already seen his pistol, however, and they did not doubt that he intended to use it. They ran swiftly up to him. One approached from behind and seized him by the arms.
Rube struggled, but was soon overpowered and flung to the ground, where his hands were tied to his back. What became of his cap and revolver he did not see, for a greasy, ill-smelling rag was bound tightly over his eyes.
They led him away, forcing him to a quick walk down the mountain side, for miles and miles, it seemed. He often stumbled on the rough ground.
Sometimes he was half-pushed, half-dragged along the rocky side of a watercourse; more than once he was led waist deep across a rushing stream that was icy cold. Then there was a steep climb up another mountain slope and down into a farther valley.
Here the Indians came to a halt. Rube heard the movements of horses, and presently he was lifted and flung over the back of one of them. He managed to get comfortably astride, in spite of his imprisoned hands. Fortunately for himself, he was a good rider and could keep his seat on the pony's bare back without great difficulty.
All the time he was thinking less of his own position as a captive than of Kiddie. He knew very surely that Kiddie would be anxious about him. What would he do? Would he just wait in camp in fretful annoyance?
Rube knew Kiddie pretty well by now; knew that so soon as a reasonable time had gone by he would judge that an accident of some kind had caused the delay, and would set out in search.
"Pity I didn't blaze the trail, somehow," Rube reflected. "Dessay he'll squander heaps of valuable time lookin' fer my dead body along the foot of the cliffs away down in the cañon. Though I reckon he'd foller on my tracks as far's he could. If Kiddie noticed that pair of eagles takin' flight, he'll know it was my bein' near their nest that scared 'em. He'll make for the nest, sure."
Rube was applying Kiddie's method of imagining himself in the other person's place, and, following up this process, he decided that it would not be very long before Kiddie would get on to the track of these Indians.
CHAPTER XVI
THE SIGN OF THE BROKEN FEATHER
When at length the po
nies were brought to a halt, Rube was dragged to the ground and left there, lying on his back, with his cramped arms beneath him. He heard the muffled sounds of barking dogs and chattering squaws, and he judged that he had been brought into the Indians' encampment.
Presently he was turned over and his arms were set free, the tight bandage was taken from his eyes.
He sat up and gazed about him wonderingly, with dim sight and aching forehead.
For the first time in his life he was in an Indian village, surrounded by wigwams, all of them similar to Kiddie's teepee, only that his was cleaner and better made, and decorated with more care.
The village was pitched in the midst of a green valley, through which ran a narrow creek, bordered with willows. Horses and cattle grazed on the neighbouring slopes, and an enclosed cornfield and well-beaten trails showed that the Indians lived here permanently.
Near to where he sat were two lodges larger than the rest. They were decorated with many painted devices and trophies of the chase, and in front of each of them was a high totem pole from which grim-looking scalp locks and skulls and bones were suspended. He conjectured that one of these tents would be the chief's wigwam and the other the Medicine Lodge.
None of the Redskins took much notice of him, passing him with a mere glance, or making a remark in a tongue which he did not understand.
A young squaw approached, carrying water. Rube signed to her, asking for a drink. She stopped and stooped to give him one. He then made further easily understood signs to show that he was very hungry. She spoke to him, but he shook his head.
"Wish you c'd speak plain English," he said.
Then the squaw also began to talk in the sign language, and Rube gathered that she did not dare to bring food to a prisoner. Nevertheless, a little later she went past him and dropped within his reach, as if by chance, a fragment of dry buffalo meat, which he ate hungrily.
He was left alone for a long time. But he knew that he was being watched, and that it would be worse than useless for him to attempt to escape.
He saw the young Indian boys at their games of skill, or engaged in competitions with the bow and arrow, horse racing, mounting and dismounting while their bare-backed ponies were at the gallop, throwing the lariat, wrestling and running, and thus training to become braves and warriors.
At about mid-day two of the scouts who had been among his captors came up to him and signed to him to follow them. They led him across a foot-worn patch of grass towards the entrance of the Medicine Lodge, where they came to a halt, standing on guard over him.
Rube wondered what was going to happen; but, watching, he began to understand that the chief warriors and medicine men were within the lodge, and that some sort of court of justice was being held. He further gathered from the picture-writing on the lodge that these Redskins were of the Crow nation, and that the tribal name of their chief was Falling Water.
When at length he was marched into the lodge he saw the councillors seated on the floor in a half-circle round a small fire. All of them wore feathered war bonnets and had their faces painted.
Falling Water himself, a grim, wizen-featured old man, sat in the middle, smoking a tobacco pipe that was shaped like a tomahawk and adorned with coloured beads and feathers. He looked at Rube long and steadily, and then spoke to one of the scouts inquiringly.
Rube could only understand the answer by the gestures and signs that accompanied it. From these and what followed he was able to make up a coherent outline of the offence of which he was being accused.
It appeared that a picket of scouts had been out on the mountains watching for enemy spies. They had captured this one in the very act of spying upon them. He had been making signals, sending messages and answering messages by sounds made with his lips. He carried a gun, and was ready to use it upon them if they had not been too quick for them. And he was disguised. It was clear that he was an Indian—one of their Sioux enemies—who had tried to make himself look like a Paleface. Moreover, he wore the totem sign of his chief, who was the enemy of Falling Water.
Rube was perplexed in his effort to understand this part of the scout's evidence.
He was not surprised that he had been mistaken for a full-blooded Indian. Was not his mother an Indian? And had not both he and Kiddie when they started on their camping trip dressed themselves in fringed buckskins and designedly made themselves look as much as possible like Indians?
He supposed that the scouts picketed on the heights had heard Kiddie's whistle from afar and his own feeble attempt to respond. What puzzled him most was the spokesman's declaration that he wore the totem sign of his chief. For so he understood the scout's gestures.
Falling Water was apparently dissatisfied, for he closely questioned the witness, whose answer, partly in the Crow tongue and partly in pantomime, threw a flood of light upon Rube's perplexity.
Plucking a feather from his own headdress, the scout pinched the quill and bent it over, holding it in position on Rube's head.
This, then, was the totem sign of his supposed chief. And he, Rube Carter, was believed by these Crow Indians to be a spy of their enemy Broken Feather!
He did not know that one of the medicine men had questioned him in the tongue of the Sioux, which, if he were indeed one of Broken Feather's tribe, he ought to have understood. His failure to answer was taken for stubbornness, a sure evidence of his guilt.
Falling Water spoke, holding up a cautioning finger to impose attention to his words. Rube guessed by his serious judicial manner that he was passing a sentence of punishment upon him.
"It's a pity none o' you c'n understand plain, straight-forward English," he protested. "I c'd explain in a jiffy."
"Eh?" cried the medicine man who had addressed him in the Sioux, "you c'n speak English yourself, can you, young 'un?"
Rube looked across at him in astonishment. Surely he was not an Indian, speaking like this! He was an old, old man with a wrinkled face, white hair, and a matted white beard and dim blue eyes. In dress and manner, however, he was very little different from his companions.
"It's the only language that I c'n speak," said Rube.
"Barrin' your own," winked the medicine man. "But you're not the only one of your tribe that can speak English. Broken Feather himself's a dab hand at it, so I hear. A clever scoundrel is Broken Feather. Togged you out like a Paleface and sent you into this reservation to spy around and find out how many braves and warriors we've got, how many war-horses we possess, and how far it's safe for him to come out on the war-trail against us. Well, young 'un, you're caught at it, and you've got to take the consequences, which is as much as to say that you're going to be tortured to death. You asked for plain English, and now you've got it. Quit!"
"But you haven't let me explain," Rube objected hotly.
The old man closed his dim blue eyes and drew his red blanket closer about his shoulders.
"No explanations needed," he grunted.
At a sign from the chief, the scouts dragged Rube forcibly away, and again tied his hands.
They took him into an empty teepee and there bound his legs together and mounted a guard outside so that he could not possibly escape.
No food and no drink were given to him during the rest of the long, weary, monotonous day. He watched a shaft of sunlight moving slowly across the earthen floor of the wigwam until it became a thin streak and then faded.
At dusk a new guard entered—two powerful young Indians with grotesquely painted faces. They loosened the bonds about his legs, but did so only that he might walk as they led him out into a lane broken through a dense crowd of excited braves and squaws and curious children, waiting to witness his torture.
He saw Falling Water with his medicine men and principal warriors in their full war-paint seated in a group in the midst of an open circle of the expectant people. Drums were being beaten, weird Indian songs were being chanted, braves wearing hideous masks were dancing round a blazing fire.
In the middle of the wide ring
was the charred stump of a tree, and to this Rube was led. When he came closer, he saw a procession of youths march up, each carrying a large load of faggots. Following them came Indians armed with spears, scalping-knives, bows and arrows, and formidable clubs.
Rube began to feel exceedingly limp. He was trembling from head to foot, though as yet he only guessed at the ominous meaning of these preparations.
Suddenly he was seized from behind and thrust bodily towards the grim execution tree. He struggled, but was overpowered. A blow on the head made his brain reel, and all the strength of his resistance went out of him.
When he came to himself again he found that he was bound by ropes to the tree, and that flames were licking at his feet and legs, while by the light of the fire and through the mist of smoke he saw hideous figures of red men dancing round him, menacing him with their spears and knives and tomahawks.
The fire nipped his shins, the ropes were cutting into his flesh, the sparks and smoke were choking him.
"Kiddie! Kiddie!" he cried aloud in his anguish of body and mind.
And then, from immediately behind him, there came a calm, steady voice—
"All right, Rube; all right. I'm here."
Never, never, though he should live to be a hundred, could Rube Carter forget those magical, unexpected words, coming to him as they did in the most awful moment of his young life!
He did not ask himself just then how it had been possible for Kiddie to find him and to penetrate the crowd of excited Indians unnoticed and unhindered. All that he thought of was that Kiddie was here to rescue him from the torturing death from which there had seemed to be no faintest hope of escape.
But even yet escape had not been achieved.
The rising flames were scorching his legs, the flying sparks were stinging his face and neck, the resinous smoke of the pine wood was stifling him, and the madly-gesticulating Redskins were prodding at him with their long spears and striking at him with their tomahawks to see how nearly they could hit him without yet touching him. They prolonged the process of cruelty to increase his mental suffering; but the delay gave Kiddie his chance.
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