The Yellow Chief

Sixty seconds spent in wading, and they emerged dripping into the light of day. More of it than they wished for: since the sun was now fairly up, his disc appearing some two or three degrees above the prairie horizon.

There was need for the horsemen to show circumspection. And they did: silently skirting the cliff, and keeping behind the huge boulders, that, for long ages shed from its summit, strewed the plain at its base.

“Arter all, Ned,” said the old trapper, when they had ridden to a safe distance from the dreaded spot, “we needn’t ’a been so partickler. I reck’n, ’bout this time, thar ain’t a sober Injun upon the banks o’ Bijou. I hope ole Blackedder an’ his party, afore leavin’ the settlements, laid in a good supply o’ rot-gut – enuf to keep them skunks dead-drunk till we kin git back agin. Ef thet be the case, thar’ll be some chance o’ our chestisin’ ’em.”

A mental “amen” was the only response made by the young Irishman; who was too much occupied in thinking of Clara Blackadder’s danger, to reflect coolly on the means of rescuing her – even though it were certain she still lived.

Chapter Nine.

Saint Vrain’s

One of the classical names associated with the “commerce of the prairies” is that of Saint Vrain. Ever since trapping became a trade, or at all events, since prairie-land, with its wonders, had grown to be a frequent, as well as interesting topic of conversation around the hearth-fires of the American people, the names of Bent, Saint Vrain, Bonneville, Robideau, Laramie, and Pierre Choteau, might often be heard upon the lips of men.

And none more frequently than Saint Vrain, by whose daring and enterprise not only were caravans carried across the almost untrodden wilderness to the Mexican settlements of Santa Fé, but forts established in the very midst of this wilderness, and garrisons maintained, with a military efficiency rivalling the body-guard of many a little European despot!

Yet there was no despotism here, supported by the sweat of a taxed people; only a simple defensive organisation for the pursuit of a valuable, as a laudable, industry.

And when the iron horse goes snorting through the midst of those distant solitudes, and cities have sprung up on his track, the spots so marked in our history will become classic ground; and many a tale will be told of them, redolent of the richest romance.

Were I to live in the not very remote future, I would rather have in my ornamental grounds the ruins of one of Bent’s or Saint Vrain’s Forts, than the crumbling walls of Kenilworth Castle or the Keep of Carisbrooke. More picturesquely romantic, more exalting, would be the souvenirs recalled, and the memories awakened by them.

Saint Vrain’s trading-post, on the South Fork of the Platte, was one of those long noted as a favourite rendezvous of the free trappers10, as might have been told by any one chancing to make stop at it in the season when these wandering adventurers laid aside their traps to indulge in a spell of idleness and a “spree.”

Just such a time was that when Squire Blackadder and his emigrant companions were approaching the post, and fell into the clutches of the Cheyennes. It was not one of their grandest gatherings, since only about twenty of them were there; but among twenty trappers, or even less, there is no lack of company. And if all, or even part of them, have returned with fat packs, and found beaver selling at three dollars the “plew”11, there will be a merry company; at times becoming dangerous – not only to strangers, but to one another – through too much drink.

An assemblage of this sort – including, we are sorry to say, both the sober and the drunk – were at Saint Vrain’s Fort, on the day above specified. They had come there from all quarters – from the parks and “holes” of the Rocky Mountains, from the streams, creeks, and branches on this side running east, as well as from the head waters of the Green, Bear, and Colorado coursing west. Nearly all of them had made a good season of it, and arrived with their pack animals staggering under the spoils of the trap and the rifle.

These had become the property of the Fort, after an exchange on its side of guns, knives, powder, and lead, with five-point Mackinaw blankets, and other articles of trapper wear; including those of adornment, and not forgetting some sparkling bijouterie intended as gifts, or “guages d’amour” for the bronze-skinned beauties of the prairie. Rude as is the trapper’s life, and solitary too, he is not insensible either to the soft charms of love, or its companionship.

In addition to the articles thus swapped or “trucked,” the trappers assembled at Saint Vrain’s in exchange for their peltries, had received a large quantity of coin currency, in the shape of Mexican silver dollars. With these burning the bottoms out of their pockets, it is scarce necessary to say that drink was the order of the day, with cards as its accompaniment.

We regret having to make this statement; as also that quarrels are the too frequent termination of these games of euchre and “poker.”

Another source of strife among the trappers assembled at Saint Vrain’s was to be found in the fact, that a friendly Indian tribe, the “Crows,” were encamped near the post; and among these birds, notwithstanding the name are many that are beautiful.

No soft courtship suits an Indian belle. If you want to win her, you must show bravery; and you will not risk losing her affections if your bravery degenerate into brutalism!

Such are the moral inclinings of both men and women in the state called “savage;” but it must not be supposed that this is the state of Nature. On the contrary, the savages, properly so-styled, have long since passed from their pristine condition of simplicity.12

Several quarrels had occurred among the trappers at Saint Vrain’s Fort – more than one that had ended in the shedding of blood – and one of the bloodiest was on the eve of breaking out, when a cry from the sentinel on the azotea13 caused a suspension of the broil.

The quarrellers were below, on the level plain that stretched away from the grand gate entrance of the building, and formed a sort of general ground for assemblage – as well for athletic sports, as for games of a less recommendable kind.

The shout of the sentry caused them to look towards the plain, where they saw two horsemen going at a gallop, and evidently making for the Fort.

The rapidity with which they approached, and the way they were urging on their steeds, told a tale of haste. It could be no caper of two men trying the speed of their horses. The animals seemed too badly blown for that.

“Thar’s Injuns after them two fellers!” said Black Harris, a celebrated mountain man. “Or hez a been not far back. Boys! can any o’ ye tell me who they are? My sight ain’t so plain as ’twar twenty yeer ago.”

“If I ain’t mistook,” answered another of the trapper fraternity, “that ’un on the clay-bank hoss is ole ’Lije Orton, oreeginally from Tennessee. Who the other be, durn me ef I know. A young ’un, I guess; an’ don’t look at all like these hyar purairies, though he do sit that black hoss, as though he war friz to him. Don’t the feller ride spunky?”

“Ay dios!” exclaimed a man whose swarth skin and bespangled costume proclaimed him a Mexican. “Call that riding, do you? Carrai! on our side of the mountains a child of six years old would show you better!”

“In trath an’ yez are mistaken, Misther Saynyor Sanchis, as ye call yerself. I know who that gossoon is that’s comin’ up yonder, for he’s a countryman of mine; and, be the powers! he can roide to bate any Mixikan in the mountains – not like a cat stickin’ on the back av a goat, as yez do it; but like a gintleman. Him yonder beside ould ’Lije Orton, is Misther Edward Onale, ov the Onales av County Tipperary; an’, be jabbers, he is a gintleman be both sides av the house!”

Before this new discussion could culminate in another quarrel, the two horsemen had ridden upon the ground, and pulled up in the midst of the trappers, who, with eager, inquiring looks, gathered in a circle around them.

Chapter Ten.

Changed Hostilities

The freshly arrived horsemen, instead of alighting, remained seated in their saddles.

For a time neither spoke, though their silence might be for want of breath. Both were panting, as were also the horses that bore them.

“Theer’s somethin’ wrong, ’Lije Orton,” said Black Harris, after saluting an old comrade. “I can tell that by yur looks, as well’s by the purspiration on yur anymal. ’Tain’t often as you put the critter in such a sweet. What is it, ole hoss? Yeller belly, or Injun? It can’t be white.”

“White’s got somethin’ to do wi’ it,” replied the old trapper, having somewhat recovered his wind. “But Injun more.”

“Thar’s a riddle, boys! Which o’ ye kin read it? ’Splain yurself, ’Lije.”

“Thar ain’t much explinashin needed; only that a party o’ emigrants hez been attackted on Bijou Crik, an’ maybe all on ’em killed, fur as this chile kin tell.”

“What emigrants? Who attacked them?”

“Yur fust question, boys, I kin answer clar enuf. They were some planters from the State o’ Massissippi.”

“That’s my State,” interpolated one of the trappers, a young fellow, inclined to take part in the talking.

“Shet up yur head!” commanded Harris, turning upon the fellow one of his blackest frowns.

“Whether it air yur State or no,” continued the imperturbable ’Lije, “don’t make much diff’rence. What I’ve got to say, boys, air this: A karryvan o’ emigrant planters, boun’ for Californey, wi’ thar niggers along, camp’d last night on the bank o’ Bijou Crik. After sun-up this mornin’, they war set upon by Injuns, an’ I reck’n most, ef not all on ’em, hev been rubbed out. I chance to know who them emigrants war; but thet’s no bizness o’ yurn. I reck’n it’s enuf that they war whites, an’ thet Injuns hez dud the deed.”

“What Indians? Do you know what tribe?”

“That oughtn’t to make any diffrence eyther,” responded ’Lije. “Though I reck’n it will, when I’ve tolt ye who the attacktin party war, an’ who led ’em. I’ve alser got on the trail o’ that.”

“Who? ’Rapahoes?”

“No.”

“Tain’t the direction for Blackfeet.”

“Nor Blackfeet neyther.”

“Cheyennes, then? I’ll stake a bale o’ beaver it’s them same Injuns, in my opeenyun, the most trecher-most as scours these hyar perairies.”

“Ye wouldn’t lose yur skins,” quietly responded ’Lije. “It air Cheyennes es hez done it.”

“And who do you say chiefed ’em?”

“There’s no need asking that,” said one, “now we know it’s Cheyennes. Who should it be but that young devil they call Yellow Chief? He’s rubbed out more o’ us white trappers than the oldest brave among ’em.”

“Is it he, ’Lije?” asked several in a breath. “Is it the Yellow Chief?”

“’Taint nobody else,” quietly declared the trapper.

The declaration was received by a perfect tornado of cries, in which curses were mingled with threats of vengeance. All of them had heard of this Indian chieftain, whose name had become a terror to trapperdom – at least that section of it lying around the head waters of the Platte and Arkansas. It was not the first time many of them had sworn vengeance against him, if he should ever fall into their power; and the occasion appeared to have arrived for at least a chance of obtaining it. The air and attitude of ’Lije Orton led them to believe this.

All at once their mutual quarrels were forgiven, if not forgotten; and, with friendships fresh cemented by hostility to the common foe, they gathered around the old trapper and his companion – first earnestly listening to what these two had still to tell, and then as earnestly giving ear to the trapper’s counsels about the course to be pursued.

There was no question of their remaining inactive. The name of the Yellow Chief had fired one and all, from head to foot, rousing within them the bitterest spirit of vengeance. To a man they were ready for an expedition, that should end either in fight or pursuit. They only hesitated to consider how they had best set about it.

“Do you think they might be still around the wagons?” asked one, addressing himself to Orton.

“Not likely,” answered ’Lije; “an’ for reezuns. Fust an’ foremost, thar war some o’ you fellers, as passed the karryvan yesterday, ’bout the hour o’ noon. Ain’t that so?”

“Yes; we did,” responded one of the three trappers, who, standing silently in the circle, had not yet taken part in the hurried conversation. “We travelled along with them for some distance,” continued the man, “and stayed a bit at their noon halting-place. We didn’t know any of the party, except their guide, who was that Choctaw that used to hang about Bent’s Fort. Waboga, the Indjens call him. Well; we warned them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer ’un. Like enough it’s him that has betrayed them.”

“Thet’s been the treetor,” said ’Lije. “Him an’ no other; tho’ it moutn’t ’a made much difference. They war boun’ to go under anyhow, wi’ Yellur Chief lookin’ arter ’em. An’ now, as to the lookin’ arter him, we won’t find him at the wagons. Knowin’ you’ve kim on hyar, an’ knowin’, as he’s sartint ter do, thet thar’s a good grist o’ trappers at the Fort, he’ll stay ’bout the plundered camp no longer than’ll take him an’ his party to settle up spoilin’ the plunder. Then they’ll streak it. They’ve goed away from thar long afore this.”

“We can track them.”

“No, ye can’t. Leastwise, ef ye did, it woudn’t be a bit o’ use. This chile hev thort o’ a shorter an’ better way o’ findin’ out thar warabouts.”

“You know where they are gone, ’Lije?” interrogated Black Harris.

“Putty nigh the spot, Harry. I reck’n I kin find it out, ’ithout much gropin’.”

“Good for you, ole hoss! You guide us to thar swarmin’-place; an’ ef we don’t break up thar wasps’ nest and strangle thar yellar hornet o’ a chief, then call Black Harris o’ the mountains a dod-rotted greenhorn!”

“Ef I don’t guide ye strait custrut into thar campin’-place ye may call ole ’Lije Orton blinder than the owls o’ a purairia-dog town. So git your things ready, boys; an’ kum right arter me!”

It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being revenged on the hated subchief of the Cheyennes – for deeds done either to themselves, their friends, or the comrades of their calling – beat high in every heart; and, in less than ten minutes’ time, every trapper staying at Saint Vrain’s Fort, with a half-score other hangers-on of the establishment, was armed to the teeth, and on horseback!

In less than five minutes more, they were hastening across the prairie with ’Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief.

They were only five-and-twenty of them in all; but not one of their number who did not consider himself a match for at least three Indians!

As for Black Harris, and several others of like kidney, they would not have hesitated a moment about encountering six each. More than once had these men engaged in such unequal encounters, coming out of them victorious and triumphant!

Twenty-five against fifty, or even a hundred, what signified it to them? It was but sport to these reckless men! They only wanted to be brought face to face with the enemy; and then let their long rifles tell the tale.

It was a tale to be told, before the going down of the sun.

Chapter Eleven.

Captors and Captives

Once more in the gorge, where the young Cheyenne chief and his band had encamped, before making attack upon the emigrant caravan.

It is the day succeeding that event, an hour before mid-day, with a bright sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The stage is the same, but somewhat changed the characters who figure upon it, having received an addition of more than double the number. The Indians are there; but even they do not seem the same. From the quiet earnest attitude of an expeditionary band, they have been transformed into a crowd of shouting savages.

Foxes before the quarry was run down, they are now ravening wolves.

Some are carousing, some lying on the grass in a state of helpless inebriety; while others, restrained by the authority of their chief, have kept sober, and stand guard over their new-made captives.

Only a few are needed for this duty. Three sentinels are deemed sufficient – one to each group; for the prisoners have been separated into three distinct parties – holding places apart from one another. The negroes, men, women, and children, driven into a compact ring, occupy an angular space between two projections of the cliff. There, huddled together, they have no thought of attempting to escape.

To them their new condition of captivity is not so very different from that to which they have been all their lives accustomed; and, beyond some apprehension of danger, they have not much to make them specially discontented. The Indian who stands beside them, with the butt of his long spear resting upon the turf, seems to know that his guard duty is a sinecure.

So also the sentinel who keeps watch over the white women – five in all, with about three times as many children – boys and girls of various degrees of age.

There is one among them, to whom none of these last can belong. She is old enough to be a wife; but the light airy form and virginal grace proclaim her still inexperienced in marriage, as in the cares of maternity. It is Clara Blackadder.

Seated alongside the others, though unlike them in most respects, she seems sad as any.

If she has no anxiety about the children around her, she has grief for those of older years – for a father, whom but a few hours before she had seen lying dead upon the prairie turf, and whose grey hairs, besprinkled with blood, are still before her eyes.

It is his scalp that hangs from the point of a spear, stuck upright in the ground, not ten paces from where she sits!

There is yet another group equally easy to guard; for the individuals composing it are all securely tied, hand, neck, and foot.

There are six of them, and all white men. There had been nine in the emigrant party. Three are not among the prisoners; but besides the white scalp accounted for, two others, similarly placed on spears, tell the tale of the missing ones. They have shared the fate of the leader of the caravan, having been killed in the attack upon it.

Among the six who survive are Snively, the overseer, and Blount Blackadder, the former showing a gash across his cheek, evidently made by a spear-blade. At best it was but an ill-favoured face, but this gives to it an expression truly horrible.

A top belonging to one of the wagons has been brought away – the wagons themselves having been set on fire, out of sheer wanton wickedness; such cumbrous things being of no value to the light cavalry of the Cheyennes.

The single tilt appears in the camping-place, set up as a tent; and inside it the chief, somnolent after a sleepless night, and wearied with the work of the morning, is reclining in siesta.

Waboga, with the body-servant, keeps sentry outside it. Not that they fear danger, or even intrusion; but both know there is a spectacle intended – some ceremony at which they will be wanted, and at any moment of time.

Neither can tell what it is to be – whether tragic or comic; though both surmise it is not likely to be the latter.

The white men are not so fast bound, as to hinder them from conversing. In a low tone, telling of fear, they discuss among themselves the probability of what is to be done with them.

That they will have to suffer punishment, is not the question; only what it is to be, and whether it is to be death. It may be even worse: death preceded by torture. But death of itself is sufficient to terrify them; and beyond this their conjectures do not extend.

“I don’t think they’ll kill us,” said Snively. “As for myself, they ought to be satisfied with what they’ve done already. They could only have wanted the plunder – they’ve got all that; and what good can our lives be to them?”

“Our lives, not much,” rejoins a disconsolate planter. “You forget our scalps! The Indians value them more than anything else – especially the young braves, as these appear to be.”

“There’s reason in that, I know,” answers the overseer. “But I’ve heard that scalps don’t count, if taken from the heads of prisoners; and they’ve made us that.”

“It won’t make much difference to such as them,” pursues the apprehensive planter. “Look at them! Three-fourths of them drunk, and likely at any minute to take the notion into their heads to scalp us, if only for a frolic! I feel frightened every time they turn their eyes this way.”

Of the six men, there are four more frightened when the carousing savages turn their eyes in another direction – towards the group of white women. One of these is a widow, made so that same morning, her husband at the time lying scalped upon the prairie – his scalp of luxuriant black curls hanging before her face, upon the bloody blade of a lance!

Three others have husbands among the men – the fourth a brother!

The men regarding them, and thinking of what may be their fate, relapse into silence, as if having suddenly bet speech. It is the speechlessness of despair.

Chapter Twelve.

A Novel Mode of Punishment

The sun was already past the meridian when the young Cheyenne chief, coming out from under the wagon tilt, once more showed himself to his captives. Since last seen by them there was a change in his costume. It was no more the scant breech-cloth worn in war; but a gala dress, such as is used by savages on the occasion of their grand ceremonies. His coat was the usual tunic-like shirt of the hunter, with fringed cape and skirt; but, instead of brown buckskin, it was made of scarlet cloth, and elaborately adorned by bead embroidery. Underneath were fringed leggings, ending in moccasins, worked with the porcupine quill. A Mexican scarf of crimson China crape was around his waist, with its tasselled ends hanging behind. On his head was a checkered Madras kerchief, tied turban fashion, its corners jauntily knotted on one side; while above the other rose a “panache” of bluish plumes, taken from the wings of the “gruya,” or New Mexican crane, their tips dyed scarlet.

Stuck behind his sash was a glittering bowie-knife, that might once have been the property of a Kansas regulator; and there were also pistols upon his person, concealed under the white wolf-skin robe that still hung toga-like from his shoulders. But for the emblematical painting on his face, freshly touched up, he might have appeared handsome. With this he was still picturesque, though terrible to look upon. His size – he was full six feet – gave him a commanding appearance; and his movements, easy and without agitation, told of a commanding mind. His followers seemed to acknowledge it; as, on the moment of emerging from the tent, even the most roysterous of them became quiet over their cups.

For some minutes he remained by the open end of the tent, without speaking to any one, or even showing sign that he saw any one around him. He seemed occupied with some mental plan, or problem; the solution of which he had stepped forth to seek.

It was in some way connected with the tiny waterfall, that fell like a spout from the cliff; for his eyes were upon it.

After gazing at it for some time, they turned suddenly up to the sun; and as if seeing in it something to stimulate him, his attitude became changed. All at once he appeared to arouse himself from a lethargy, like one who has discovered the necessity for speedily entering upon action.

“Waboga!” he called, addressing himself to the Choctaw.

The traitor was not one of the intoxicated, and soon stood before him.

“Take some of the young men. Cut down a tree – one of the pinons yonder. Lop off the branches, and bring it here.”

Waboga went about the work, without saying a word; and a couple of tomahawks were soon hacking at the tree.

It was but a slender one, of soft pine wood; and shortly fell. Then, lopped and topped, its trunk was dragged up to the spot where the chief stood, and where he had remained standing ever since issuing the order.

“It will do,” he said, looking at the felled piñon, as if satisfied of its being suitable for his purpose. “Now take it to the fall there, and set it up; behind the jet of the water, so that it just clears it. Sink a deep hole, and see you stake it firmly.”