The Yellow Chief

With the quick perception common to men of their calling, they at once understood all. They remembered that in their haste they had but slightly secured their horses. Something, some sort of wild beast, perhaps a grizzly bear, had got among them, causing the stampede. It was an occurrence not new to them.

It only increased their thirst for vengeance against the detested Cheyennes, and made them more than ever determined on a wholesale destruction of the predatory band.

“Let’s rub them out, every redskin of them!” was the counsel passed around.

“We must get back our horses anyhow!”

“We’ll do thet,” said Orton, “an’ thar horses, too, to redemnify us for the trouble. But, boyees, ’t won’t do to go foolich about it. Though thar’s no fear o’ these hyur skunks tellin’ tales, we must take percaushuns for all that. This nigger wants proppin’ up like the rest o’ ’em. When that air done, we’ll be riddy to gie ’em thar recepshun.”

The others knew what ’Lije meant, and hastened to reset the stage for the next scene of the sanguinary drama.

While the scout on the crest of the ridge kept them warned as to the movements of the Indians, the others were busy placing the tableau that was to greet them on their return. The young lady was directed to assume a half-recumbent attitude on the grass – her horse still saddled standing near. Close by, propped up, was the dead body of the savage to whose keeping she had been entrusted; not seeming dead, but life-like by the side of his own horse, as if still keeping guard over the captive. All was arranged in less than ten minutes of time. These rude mountain men are ready at such ruses. No wonder their wits should be quick and keen; their lives often depend upon the successful execution of such schemes.

They found time to make many changes in the arrangement previously made. In their haste the stage had not been set to their satisfaction. The other dead sentinels were placed in attitudes more life-like and natural, and all traces of the brief struggle were carefully blotted out or removed. The captives, both white and black, were cautioned to keep their places, and instructed how to act, in case of any unforeseen accident causing a change in the carrying out of the programme.

When everything was fixed to their satisfaction, the trappers returned to their ambush; as before, distributing themselves into two parties – one for each side of the gorge. A vidette was still kept upon the top of the ridge, though not the man first deputed for the performance of this duty. There were now two of them – Black Harris and ’Lije Orton.

It was an interval of strange reflection with the young Irishman, O’Neil. Before his eyes – almost within reach of his arms – upon the grassy sward, he saw lying that fair form which for long absent years had remained vividly outlined in his memory. How he longed to go nearer and embrace her! And all the more, that he could perceive her glance turned toward the spot where he lay concealed, as if endeavouring to penetrate the leafy screen that separated them. How he longed for the final event that would terminate this red tragedy, and bring them together again, in life never more to be parted! It was a relief, as well as joy to him, when his old comrade, Orton, close followed by Black Harris, was seen hastily descending the slope, their gestures showing that the horse-hunt was over, and the savages were riding back toward the encampment.

“Now, boyees!” said ’Lije, gliding to both sides of the gorge, and addressing the trappers in a cautious undertone, “ef ye’ll jest keep yerselves purfectly cool for about ten minutes longer, an’ wait till ye git the word from Black Harry or myself, ye’ll have a chance o’ wipin’ out any scores ye may hev run up ’twixt yur-selves an’ Yellow Chief. Don’t neer a one o’ ye touch trigger till the last of the cussed varmints hev got clar past the mouth o’ this hyur gully. An’ then wait till ye hear the signal from me. It’ll be the crack o’ my rifle. Arter thet, the Injuns aint like to hev any chief; an’ ye kin go in, an’ gie ’em eturnal darnation.”

In ten seconds after he had ceased speaking not a trapper was to be seen near the Indian encampment; only the captives with their sentinels standing over them, surrounded by a stillness as of death. It was like the ominous calm that comes between two gusts of a storm, all the more awful from the contrasting silence.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Stampeders Captured

In starting in chase of the straying cavallada, the Cheyennes did not go on at full speed. The spectacle of over twenty horses saddled and bridled, wandering about without riders on their backs, or the sign of an owner following after them, was one so novel, that, while causing astonishment to the savages, it also aroused their instincts of caution. It looked like what the Indians had first taken it for – a stampede. And still it might be the ruse of an enemy, with the design of drawing them into an ambuscade. Partly for this reason, and partly that the ownerless animals might not be scared into a second stampede, and so become difficult of capture, the Cheyennes rode toward them slowly and deliberately.

As they drew near, however, and still no white men appeared in sight, they quickened their pace, and at length broke into a gallop – charging at full speed upon the sauntering drove. This had become necessary, as the white men’s horses had “smelt Indian,” and with crests erect, and snorting nostrils, showed signs of making off.

For a period of ten minutes there was a confused movement upon the plain – a sort of irregular tournament, in which horses ridden by dusky riders, and others without any, were mingled together and galloping towards every point of the compass; long slender ropes, like snakes, suddenly uncoiled, were seen circling through the air; wild cries were heard, sent forth from a score of savage throats – the clamour increased by the shrill neighing of horses and the shriller hinneying of the mules – while the firm prairie turf echoed the tread of over a hundred hoofs.

And soon this tableau underwent a change. The dark moving mass became scattered over a wider surface, and here and there could be seen, at intervals apart, the oft-described spectacle of a horseman using the lazo: two horses at opposite ends of a long rope stretched taut between them, tails toward each other, one of them standing with feet firmly planted, the lazo fast to a stapled ring in the tree of his saddle; the other prostrate upon the ground, with the rope wound around his neck, no longer struggling to free himself, but convulsively to get breath.

And soon again the tableau became changed. The captured steeds were whipped back upon their feet, and their captors once more got into a clump together, each leading a spare horse, that followed without further resistance.

Some had none, while others, more fortunate or skilful, had succeeded in making a double take during the quick scramble.

After the more serious work of the morning, it was a light and pleasant interlude for the young Cheyennee, and, as they returned toward their camp, they were full of joyous glee.

Still were their thoughts damped with some suspicion of danger. The novelty of such an easy razzia had in it also something of mystery; and as they rode slowly back over the prairie swells, they glanced anxious glances toward the north – the point from which the stampeded horses had come.

But no one was in sight – there was no sign of a human being!

Were the owners of the lost horses asleep? Or had they been struck dead, before the scattering commenced?

The mutual congratulations of the savages on the handsome coup they had made were restrained by the mystery that surrounded it; and, with mingled feelings of gladness and apprehension, they once more approached the spot where, as they supposed, their comrades and captives awaited them.

They went with as much speed as the led horses would allow them. Their chief, cunning as he was courageous, suspected that danger might be nigh. Where there was smoke there should be fire; and thinking of this old adage, he knew that where there were over twenty caparisoned horses there must be at least this number of men not far off – men who could only be enemies. Now that the animals were in his possession, he was sure of their owners being white. The saddles, bridles, and other trappings were such as are never, or only occasionally, used by the red-skinned cavaliers of the prairie. Though now surely afoot, the men to whom the horses belonged would be as sure to follow them; and the Yellow Chief knew that a score of white men armed with their death-dealing rifles would be an overmatch for his band, though these outnumbered them two to one. The captured animals told him something besides: their caparison proved them to belong to trappers; which, in his reckoning, more than doubled their number.

To gather up the spoils taken from the emigrant train, along with the captives, and take speedy departure from the place, was now his design.

He was thinking of the triumph that awaited him on his return to the head town of the great Cheyenne tribe; the welcome he would receive bringing back such a booty – horses, spoils, prisoners, the last to be distributed as slaves – of his increased glory in the nation, his promotion among the leaders, and the hope some day to become head chief of the Cheyennes – all these thoughts passing through his mind made him highly exultant.

And there was the other thought – revenge over his enemies in early life – those by whose tyranny and persecution he had been driven forth to find a home, and along with it honour, among the red men of the wilderness.

His fiendish spirit felt sweet joy, thus revelling in revenge; and as he rode back toward the camp, where he knew his victims awaited him, he might have been heard muttering to himself:

“They shall serve me, as I have served them. And she who is called my sister —she shall be my slave!”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Finale

The sun was already close down to the summit of the sierra, when the Yellow Chief and his followers once more surmounted the ridge that brought them in sight of the encampment.

Although the daylight was still lingering around them, the little glen and the gap leading into it were obscured under the purple shadows of approaching night.

There was light enough left for the Indian horsemen to distinguish the salient features of the scene. They could see the various groupings of their prisoners, with their comrades standing sentry over them; the white men on one side; the women near; and on the opposite edge of the valley, the sable crowd, some seated, some standing, in all respects apparently as they had parted from them when starting on the pursuit of Clara Blackadder.

Apart from all the rest they saw her, with the Choctaw keeping watch close by, his hand clutching the withers of his horse.

The picture was complete. Nothing seemed wanting. No one was there who should not have been, nor any one missing. Who could have had suspicion, that close to those silent groupings there were others equally silent, but unseen and unsuspected? Not the young Cheyenne braves returning with their captured horses; not the daring chief who rode at their head.

Without the slightest warning of the surprise that awaited them, they pushed boldly through the gap, and on, over the level meadow, toward the spot occupied by their prisoners.

It was not till they had drawn up amidst the captive groups that things seemed a little strange to them. Why were their comrades so still, so silent? They did not think of those lying stretched along the grass – in all about a dozen. They had left them there, and knew that they were intoxicated. But the guards standing erect – why were these so undemonstrative? It was a thing unusual. Returning with such spoil, they might expect to have been hailed by a paean of congratulations. There was not even a salute!

It was a puzzle – a mystery. Had there been a better light, it might sooner have been solved. The blood sprinkled here and there over the grass, the gashes that would have been seen on the bodies of the sentinels, their stiff set attitudes and ghastly faces – all would have been apparent. But over all was the veil of a fast-darkening twilight, and through its obscurity only the outlines of their figures could be traced, in positions and attitudes seeming natural enough. It was the absence of all motion, coupled with the profound silence, that seemed strange, ominous, appalling!

“Waboga!” cried the chief, addressing himself to the Choctaw who stood guard over the girl, “what means this? Why do you stand there like a tree-stump? Why do you not speak?”

No answer from Waboga!

“Dog!” cried the mulatto, “if you don’t make answer, I’ll have you nailed to that cross, you have yourself erected. Once more I ask you, what is the meaning of this nonsense?”

The threat had no effect upon Waboga. It elicited no answer – not even the courtesy of a sign!

“Slave!” shouted the chief, leaping down from his horse, and rushing toward the silent sentry, “I shall not give you the grace of a trial. This instant shall you die!”

As he spoke, a blade glistened in his hand, which, as his gestures showed, was about to be buried in the body of Waboga.

The sentry stood staunch, apparently regardless of the death that threatened him!

The chief stayed his hand, surprised at the unparalleled coolness of the Choctaw.

Only for a moment; for as he stood regarding him, now close up to the body, he saw what explained all – a gash great as he could have himself inflicted!

Waboga was already dead!

The horse upon which the Choctaw was leaning, scared by the threatening gesture, shied to one side, and the lifeless form fell heavily to the earth!

The knife dropped from the hands of the Cheyenne chief, and, with a wild, distracted air, he turned toward his followers to seek an explanation. But before a word could be spoke all was explained.

A cordon of dark forms was seen closing up the entrance of the valley; the word “Fire!” was heard, followed by a serried sheet of flame, and the sharp “crack, crack, crack,” proclaiming the discharge of a score of rifles.

It was the last sight seen by the Yellow Chief – the last sound heard by him before passing into eternity!

And the same with his freebooting band. Not one of them went alive out of that valley, into which the trappers had decoyed them.

The emigrants continued on to California, now with diminished numbers; for, along with the leader, several others had been killed in the attack upon the caravan.

But, besides the dead, there was one living who went not with them.

Now that her father was no more, there was no one to hinder Clara Blackadder from staying behind, along with the man of her choice; no reason why she should not return with him to the seats of civilisation.

And she did so; not to share with him an humble home, but a residence far more splendid than the old plantation-house in the “Choctaw purchase.” As the Irish trapper had declared it, Edward O’Neil was one of the “Onales of Tipperary, a gintleman on both sides av the house;” and in due time the property belonging to both sides of the house became his.

It might be chivalry that he did not take his young Southern wife there, where she might feel lonely in a land of strangers. But it gave equal evidence of good sense, that he sold off his Tipperary estates, and invested the money in the purchase of town-lots upon an islet he had learned to love even more than the “gem of the seas.” It was the isle of Manhattan.

There he still lives, happy in the companionship of his beautiful and faithful wife; cheered by sweet children, and, at intervals, by the presence of his old comrade, ’Lije Orton, who, now that railroads have penetrated the far prairies, comes occasionally to pay him a visit, and keep him posted up in the lore of the “mountain men.”

The End

1

The Spanish word for inclosure, adopted at an early period by the prairie-traders, and now become part of our language.

2

They have several reasons for this preference. The arrow does its death-work silently, without alarming the game; besides, powder and lead cost more than arrow-sticks, which can also be recovered.

3

Grama, the New Mexican name for a species of grass forming the finest pastured of the prairies – the famed buffalo grass not excepted.

4

Sierra, The Spanish word for “saw.” It also signifies a mountain chain or ridge, the idea having no doubt come from the denticulated appearance of the Spanish mountain chains, seen en profile, against the sky. What we call the Rocky Mountains, are known among Mexicans as the Sierra Madre (mother chain). Spurs and branching ranges have particular names, as Sierra Mogollon, Sierra Guadalupe, etc. This word is being adopted into our language, and will soon be thoroughly “naturalised” as “cañon,” “ranche,” and others. Cerro is a different word, and signifies an isolated mountain or high hill, as “Cerro dorilo.”

5

Pronounced Peenyon. It is the edible or “nut pine” (pinus edulis), of which there are several distinct species throughout Texas, Mexico, the Rocky Mountains, and California. They afford food to several tribes of Indians, and are also an article of consumption in many white (Mexican) settlements.

6

There is a remarkable resemblance between the call-note of the bald eagle, and the sound made in sharpening a large saw. And by a little stretch of fancy, it may be likened to the shrill hysterical laughter, sometimes heard from the insane.

7

“Hole.” The trapper name for an enclosed gorge of the kind described.

8

Sole-leather made from the hide of the buffalo bull, tanned Indian fashion. A French trapper word signifying arrow-proof, on account of its being used for shields by the prairie Indians.

9

Vulpes velox. The swiftest of the foxes; called “Kit-fox,” by the fur-traders, on account of the skin being taken from the carcase whole, as with rabbit-skins – not split up the abdomen, as with the larger species.

10

The “free” or “independent trappers,” as they were also called, formed a class sui generis, in many respects differing from the regular employés of the fur-trading companies. They were different in ideas and habits, as also in the dangers of their calling.

11

Plew. The trapper name for the beaver skins. They are now, I believe, only worth a dollar each. Formerly they were saleable at four. The introduction of the silk hat ruined the trapper’s trade, though it has been a great boon to the beavers.

12

There is no instance on record of a tribe in the so-called pristine “savage” state, having been convicted of the crime of cannibalism. This is an “institution” that comes only after a certain degree of civilisation has been attained, or rather when the period of despotism has arrived, both priestly and monarchical. There is no court where ceremonies are more complete than that of Thakonbau, the “King of the Cannibal Islands,” of “Figi.”

13

The trading fort of the fur companies in the Mexican portion of the prairie country were usually built, Mexican fashion, with the flat roof or azotea.