The Missouri Outlaws

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PRISONER

That same day, about nine o'clock in the evening, the outlaw was seated face to face with Captain Pierre Durand at a table covered with dishes, plates, and empty bottles, which testified to the appetite of the two men, and to the rude attack they had made upon everything in order to satisfy it.

The two men were now smoking excellent cigars, while sipping, like true amateurs, some mocha, served in real Japanese cups. Close at hand, in addition, were bottles containing every conceivable kind of liquors and spirits.

They had reached that precise period in the repast so prized by gourmets, when, the mind elevated and the brain excited by succulent food and generous libations, one feels a kind of happy state of being that is simply charming.

For one whole quarter of an hour neither of the two men had spoken or cared to speak.

It was the outlaw who first broke the charm.

"You are aware, my dear captain," he said, "that in half an hour I must leave you and be off."

"Excuse me," cried Pierre Durand, starting, "if I believe a single word of such a mad assertion."

"Yes, I am truly sorry to say, it is the exact fact. Doubtless you know as well as I do, business before all."

"I have not the remotest idea of interfering with your affairs," cried the sea captain, glumly.

"Then what do you mean?"

"That you are not going to leave me in the lurch."

"Still, when I tell you I must go," said the outlaw.

"All I mean is this, that if you go I go," cried Pierre.

"What! A night journey like this?" asked Tom.

"Night journey, day journey, it is all the same to me. I am an old sailor," growled Pierre Durand; "and every kind of locomotion is equally indifferent to me. Besides, I have known you a very long time, haven't I? And I know what sort of trade you carry on," he added.

The outlaw kept his countenance.

"Of course, I shall not be surprised or scandalised at anything I see. All I know is that here I should be bored to death, having nothing to do. It would be a nice little change to join you in one of your filibustering expeditions."

All this was said in a joking kind of way that excluded all idea of giving offence.

"Well," said Tom Mitchell, smiling, "any way, you would find yourself utterly disappointed."

"How is that?"

"I am not going to plunder, but to restore. Of course I don't pretend it is my usual custom," said Tom.

"Very well," cried Pierre; "I think that will be much more funny. I should like to join in the good work."

"But, my friend – " urged the outlaw.

"There is no but about it. I am a Breton, that is to say, as obstinate as several mules," continued Pierre Durand; "and I mean to come, unless, indeed, you tell me that my demand is in reality offensive and intrusive."

"By no means," cried Tom; "come then. Who can resist anyone so obstinate as you are, my friend?"

"You are a delightful fellow. I am ready."

"Not quite; there are conditions; at least, one."

"Pray let me know what it is."

"You must profit by the few minutes that remain to us to disguise yourself, so as to be unrecognisable."

"To what purpose, in a country where nobody knows me?" cried Pierre Durand; "Will you tell me a reason?"

"That is my secret. Will you consent? That is right. Now go there, and you will find all things necessary."

Pierre Durand was about to leave the room, but the outlaw indicated where everything was ready.

"There is another favour I must ask of you."

"Go ahead, nothing surprises me," said the captain, who, with magnificent sang-froid had commenced his work.

"In case chance should bring us face to face with people we know," he said, earnestly, "you will still keep up your incognito, even if you happen to see among these the face of the friend whom you have travelled so far to see."

The captain, who was blacking his beard with soot and fat, having already darkened his eyebrows, gave a start.

"Will he be there?" he asked.

"I do not say so. It is more than probable that he will not be there. Still, I wish to exercise every precaution."

"Hum, still it appears very hard."

"Still, do you consent? Yes or no."

"I repeat what you just said. I suppose I must," said Pierre; "and as I see you are in earnest, I promise, on my honour."

"Enough; then make haste."

After rendering his features and countenance utterly unrecognisable, the captain threw off his outer clothes, and assumed the costume of a planter of the frontier.

"What languages do you speak?" asked Tom.

"Nearly all civilised ones as easily as I do French," replied Durand; "but, above all, English and Spanish."

"Very good," continued Tom; "then during our excursion I shall always call you Don José Remero."

"Don José Remero be it."

"You must recollect that you are a captain in the Spanish navy, fled from home after a fatal duel."

"All right," grinned Pierre.

"Do not forget to take weapons. I can strongly recommend this tison. It is a perfect and choice rapier," said Tom; "have this long and pointed knife in your right boot. You may want it when you least expect. Do you ride?"

"Like a centaur," laughed the Frenchman.

"I am very glad to hear it; and now secure this carbine and this pair of pistols," continued Tom.

"Why, I shall look like an arsenal."

"My friend, it is the custom of the country," said Tom; "no one thinks of travelling in any other way."

"One does at Rome as Rome does. I'm your man," cried Pierre, laughing; "what do you think of me?"

"Unrecognisable. I should not know you anywhere. You are clever; even your accent is changed."

"That is always the first thing to be thought of," said Pierre Durand; "and now what is the nature of the restitution?"

"We are going," replied the outlaw, with a smile, "to restore a young girl to her friends and relatives."

"A young girl?" cried Durand.

"Yes – a most charming and interesting maiden, whom I captured the other day. I can no longer resist her tender sorrow."

"Bah!" said the young sailor, with a grin.

"I swear to you, upon my honour," cried the outlaw, warmly, "that she has been treated with the most profound respect and even tenderness."

"Spoken like an honest man," said the captain, warmly. "But may I ask with what object you took her away?"

"I had a motive, which I fear me exists no longer. I even fear," he said, gloomily, "I have entered upon a bad speculation. But it is useless to discuss the matter anymore. Soon there shall be no mysteries for you. Be seated again."

"Why?" asked the captain, puzzled at all these mysteries.

"She comes, and it is rather important I should say a few words to her before we start on our journey."

"I am your humble servant to command."

Tom Mitchell struck a gong, and Camotte appeared.

"Have my orders been executed?" asked the outlaw.

"Yes, captain. The stranger is watched carefully, and yet without creating suspicion," replied the lieutenant.

"Where is he now?"

"In his own room."

"If tomorrow he asks after me," said Tom Mitchell, "you will give him the answer already agreed on."

"Yes, captain."

"What about the detachments?"

"Those have started within the hour, I shall start with the last as soon as the moon rises," replied Camotte.

"Remember," said Tom, thoughtfully, "that tomorrow morning at sunrise, if not before, you must be back."

"Be easy as to that, captain," said the other, significantly; "I shall not leave the island without a chief just now."

"Humph!" observed the captain, suspiciously, "Is there anything fresh in the air?"

"Nothing in appearance, much in reality."

"You can speak out here," said Tom Mitchell; "if you have anything to say, say it without hesitation."

"About an hour ago, when I was going my round," said the matter-of-fact and faithful Camotte, "I met that fellow Versenca at the water's edge; he was wet through, and had evidently been swimming. When he saw me he was utterly confounded, and then when I questioned him as to his conduct he gave me a lot of silly reasons a child of five would have seen through."

The captain reflected with a dark frown.

"Redouble your vigilance, my good Camotte," he said at last. "On the first suspicion arrest him until I come back."

"For greater safety, captain," replied Camotte, "I shall take him with me tonight, I can watch him."

"Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just now. He is as cunning as an opossum."

"I know it, but two can play at the same game."

"Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us, and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe."

"She is quite a lady's horse – an ambler. She will quite suit her rider," replied Camotte.

"Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for war – victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols."

"As a matter of course. When Black Athol and Goliath go out, I know you are bent on mischief. What absence?"

"Three days at most," replied the captain; "and during that time never leave the island."

"And you go alone?" asked Camotte, anxiously.

"With the gentleman, as I have already said."

"I think you should take Tête de Plume," said Camotte.

"Will you tell me why?" asked the captain, smiling.

"No one ever knows on an expedition what may happen," drily replied the lieutenant, "and two are better than one."

"But I have told you, we are two already."

"Very good," he continued, "but you would be three."

"I tell you what it is, Camotte," said the captain, laughing, "you do just as you like with me. Let him come."

"I thank you heartily," cried the delighted lieutenant.

"Above all, whatever happens, keep my absence a secret," said Tom Mitchell; "that is above all essential."

"Your orders shall be obeyed in all things."

"And now bring in the prisoner," continued Tom. "By the way, have you said anything to her?"

"Captain, you know I am no babbler," observed Camotte.

"Very true," said Tom, and then turning to Pierre, he added, laughing, "that fellow does not put too much confidence in me."

"His manner is strange. Perhaps he distrusts me."

"No; Camotte is a bulldog for fidelity and discretion; but, like bulldogs, he is both suspicious and jealous," replied Tom.

"I bear him no malice for his jealousy," said Pierre; "besides, I myself always like those kind of men."

"Yes, they are indeed very precious," continued Tom; "unfortunately, you have to give way to them a little."

"Well, when it is from pure devotion, nothing can be said."

At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered the room, effectually checking the conversation.

This young girl was Angela, or Evening Dew, whichever it may please the reader to call her.

She gave a graceful curtsy, and then remained with downcast eyes before the outlaw chief.

The two men rose from their seats and bowed respectfully.

"My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the Indian tongue; "be seated."

"Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I have said."

Evening Dew was a delicious child of seventeen at most, in whom the two races, white and red, of both which she was the issue, seemed to have vied which should produce the most wondrous chef d'oeuvre.

Her elegant and slight form, slightly bent forward with that serpentine undulation which belongs to American women, her long hair, black as the raven's wing, fell almost to her feet, and when loosened, might have served her as a cloak. Her complexion had the golden tint of the daughters of the sun; her great blue and dreamy eyes were fringed by long velvet lashes; her mouth, revealing her vermilion lips, and a row of dazzling white teeth, gave to her physiognomy that rare expression scarcely ever found except in some virgin of Titian.

The sailor was dazzled at the really marvellous beauty of the young girl. He had no idea that the whole continent of America could have produced such a fairy.

The captain smiled at her reply.

"Evening Dew has no master here. She is with friends who will protect her," he said, heartily.

"Friends!" she cried, clasping her hands together, while the pearly tears went down her cheeks; "Is it possible?"

"I swear to you, young girl," he continued, "that what I say is true. I have sent for you to apologise for what has happened, to demand forgiveness for your cruel abduction."

"Oh, sir," she cried, in excellent French, "oh, sir, can I really believe my ears! Is it true?"

"You would insult me by disbelieving," he replied, in the same language; "tomorrow you will be with your friends."

"Thank you, sir, from my soul," she sobbed forth.

And before the captain could prevent her – before he suspected her intention, the was on her knees kissing his hand.

Tom Mitchell respectfully raised her from the ground and led her to the chair she had once refused.

"Then you are very unhappy here?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she cried, "I have indeed been very unhappy; how, in fact, could I be otherwise?"

"And yet," said the captain, with a frown, "I have given the most strict orders with regard to your treatment."

"I beg most earnestly to acknowledge, sir, that I have been treated in the most honourable fashion, that I have been surrounded by the most delicate attentions. But oh, sir, I was a prisoner, alas! Far away from those I love, and whom my absence plunges, like myself, in utter despair."

"Pardon me, miss," said the chief, "my wrong towards you will soon be repaired, I promise you."

"Then you are good indeed!"

"Tomorrow," he added, with considerable emotion, "you shall be restored to the bosom of your family."

"Do that, sir," she cried, "and I will love you. Ever after you shall be as a brother to me."

"I will endeavour to merit the title, Miss Angela," he said, softly; "henceforth you will no longer curse me."

"Curse you who give me back to those I love! No, I will bless you from the bottom of my heart," she cried, earnestly, "and, believe me, God will amply reward you."

"I have a strong conviction that way myself," he said, smiling; "even heaven could scarcely be deaf to your prayer."

The girl coloured deeply at these words, which were uttered with such earnest conviction as caused her to bow her head.

The captain simply smiled softly.

"Are you tolerably strong, miss?" he asked.

"Why do you ask me this question?" she said.

"Because," he answered, "we have a very long journey to go before we find your friends."

"What matters about fatigue, sir? I am already strong. The very idea has restored my vigour."

"We shall have to undertake a long night journey," he continued, "through the prairies, by very rough ways."

She clapped her pretty hands together joyously; a charming smile lightened up her physiognomy, and then she cried out in a delighted and proud accent —

"I have Indian blood in my veins, sir," she cried; "I am the daughter of a brave Canadian hunter. Fear nothing for me. I am not a woman of the towns, who, I am told, can neither walk nor run."

"They are very much like it," growled Pierre.

"Try me, put me to any proof, and you will see of what I am capable to get back to my friends."

"Come, I see, at all events, that you are as brave and noble a woman as you are beautiful. Come, it is time."

"Do we go directly?" she cried.

"Yes," was his smiling answer.

"One moment," she said; "give me time to thank God for having touched your heart. Let me pray."

"Do as you wish," he replied, respectfully.

The young girl folded her arms across her breast, raised her looks heavenward with an inspired air for some minutes. One could see by her thoughtful brow, from the compression of her coraline lips, that she was praying. Her face was radiant, her eyes were full of tears. She seemed transfigurated.

The two men, despite their rude aspect and rough natures, stood respectfully beside her, utterly cowed, overcome, crushed under the weight of her purity and innocence. They stood before her hat in hand.

When her short and ardent prayer was over, the girl turned to them with an ineffable smile.

"Now, gentlemen," she said, bowing to the two men who she saw were henceforth her slaves, "I am quite ready."

The outlaw and his companion bowed and followed behind as she led the way outside.

Camotte was there, as was also the valorous Tête de Plume, holding the horses.

Tom Mitchell led Miss Angela to the mare Lara, which he had ordered to be saddled, and held the stirrup respectfully.

"Mount," he said, just as if he had been speaking to a princess in her own right.

Then, as soon as the outlaw had given some last whispered directions to Camotte, they started, Tom Mitchell riding at the head of the little band.

By the time the ford was passed over in safety the moon had risen in the sky above the trees.

The four travellers were now safe on terra firma.

"Now, Miss Angela," said Tom Mitchell, gallantly, "place yourself between this gentleman and myself. Good. And now, Tête de Plume, my boy, take the rearguard, and, whatever you do, look out."

The four cavaliers dashed off at a hand gallop, and soon disappeared in the windings of the defile.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH TOM MITCHELL DISCOVERS THAT HONESTY IS A GOOD SPECULATION

We now direct our steps to one of the most savage and abrupt sites in all the desert, before the rising of the sun.

Five men are crossing a narrow gorge in the mountains, the tops of which are rocky and bare or covered with snow. Just now they are rendered almost invisible by the dense fog which the sun's rays cannot dissipate.

These five travellers came from the interior of the mornes, as the hilly plains are called, and were bound for the plains, which they began to make out a short distance before them, traversed, or rather cut in two, by the extensive stream of the Missouri, the sandy waters of which were half concealed by high grass, willow, and the cottonwood trees that lined its shores.

The five wayfarers of whom we have spoken walked painfully over the flints that paved the gorge, the dried-up bed of a torrent, which itself had suddenly disappeared during one of the cataclysms so common in that region.

Having reached the extremity of the gorge, they stopped, looked around, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

Their task had been a rude one. For far more than three hours they had been stumbling in the midst of a whirlpool, nothing else, of flint stones, which, at every step they took, slid under their feet like mountain shingle.

Four of these men were whites, wearing the costume of hunters of the prairies; the fifth was an Indian.

They were George Clinton, Oliver, Bright-eye, Keen-hand, and Numank-Charake, the chief.

Now, then, let us ask how it came about that these five men should be there at that early hour in a place so far from their home – a hundred miles, in fact, from the regions they were in the habit of frequenting, and why were George Clinton and Keen-hand members of this singular and perhaps fortuitous group.

Of course we shall as soon as possible satisfy the legitimate curiosity of our friend the reader.

"Oh!" said Keen-hand, "It is my opinion, friends and companions, that the wisest thing to be done is to stop here."

"Why stop here?" cried Bright-eye, in far from a pleasant tone of voice; "Explain yourself."

"For a hundred reasons, every one of which is better than the other," resumed Keen-hand.

"I should like to know the first," said the Canadian.

"Well, it is a very excellent one, I think. You and I and the chief are used to these diabolical roads, which is far from being the case with our companions, which you ought to have observed without telling a very long time ago."

Both Oliver and Clinton tried to protest.

"No! No!" cried Bright-eye, in his frankest manner. "I am a brute. So say no more about it, as I proclaim it myself. Let us camp at once."

"Here is an excellent place," cried Keen-hand.

The hunters had halted under a grove of gigantic gumtrees. A fire was lighted, and each one, resting himself, prepared for the morning meal.

"Well, to tell the truth," said Oliver, gaily, "I will now confess that I needed repose; I was simply done up."

"I could scarcely put one foot before the other," observed George Clinton, who was stretched out on the grass.

"There!" cried Keen-hand; "Was I not right?"

"Well, considering that I have owned I was a brute," growled Bright-eye, "are you not satisfied?"

"Perfectly!" said the guide.

Numank-Charake had in the meantime undertaken the office of cook, an office he filled effectively.

A few minutes later all were eagerly devouring slices cut from a quarter of venison which had been broiled upon the hot embers.

Then the gourds were opened and passed joyously from hand to hand.

These brave young men had walked all night through impracticable paths which only hunters could overcome. They were literally famished.

But now they entered into the spirit of the thing rarely. Soon everything had disappeared. All was eaten.

When the last mouthful had been washed down, and the very last drop of brandy absorbed, each man in his turn gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"Now, then," remarked Bright-eye, looking obliquely at his companions, "I think we may talk."

"Well, I am of opinion," said Keen-hand, gaily, "that after a hearty meal, two things are agreeable – a pipe and talk."

This declaration, the justice and opportuneness of which everybody at once recognised, was like a signal; instantly, pipes in red clay, with cherry tree tubes, were drawn from their belts, stuffed, lighted, and soon a cloud of blue smoke surrounded the head of every guest like a glory.

"Now, then, Bright-eye," said Oliver, gaily, between two puffs, "fire away as soon as you like."

"Messieurs, my friends," replied Bright-eye, "my heart is very sad. Despite all I can do, I feel a kind of presentiment that this man, in whom we have so trusted, is deceiving us."

Numank-Charake lifted up his head.

"I know the paleface chief," he said, in his guttural tones, shaking his head in a way to give more emphasis to his words; "he is a man whose tongue is not forked. His word is as gold – and my brother, Bright-eye, is wrong."

"In the name of heaven, is it you who speak in that way, chief?" asked the astonished hunter; "You, of all men in the world, so deeply interested."

"Numank-Charake is a chief in his nation," quickly interrupted the redskin, his words, which swelled his bosom, coming directly from his heart; "the man who despises his enemies is not a brave warrior, but exposes himself to the reproach of only vanquishing cowards."

"Well spoken, chief," said Keen-hand.

"The Grey Bear, the paleface chief, is ferocious, cruel, and a thief, but he is brave and truthful."

Oliver and Clinton stared.

"What he has said he will do, he will do. What he has offered he will give. Did we go openly to him? No! We hunted him like a wild beast Wounded, dying, we wished to kill him. He escaped; thanks not to cunning, but to audacity. He is a great chief."

The whites exchanged glances.

"Nothing would have been more easy for him than to laugh at our menaces and to conceal himself from us. Instead of that, he has sent us a collar – letter – in which he invites us to an interview, for the purpose of ending the troubles which divide us."

"This may be a trick," said Oliver.

"No! It is neither the act of a false nor of a double-faced man. No! It is the act of a brave and loyal warrior. That is my opinion. Whatever may happen during the next few hours, I am convinced that if we have confidence in him I shall be found right. I have said."

The chief relighted his pipe, which had gone out during his speech, and from that moment he appeared to take no further part in the conversation. Still he listened to what the others said.

"As far as I am concerned," observed Oliver, "I think the chief has spoken well. I agree with him on every point. As far as I can judge, this pirate or this outlaw, whichever you choose to call him, is not a man like other men. There is something in him which is not at all ordinary. In one word, he may, it is true, be a brigand, but, certainly, his is a very lofty nature. Until further events, I, for one, shall believe in his word."