It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the bridle.
Well, now, this is good luck, cried the trapper, as he rode up.
No, replied the Indian gravely, it is not luck.
Well, as to that, I dont much care what you call itbut get up. Why, whats wrong wi you?
The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount.
Well, now I come to think of it, said the trapper, as he sprang to the ground, you have come a tremendous waya most awful long wayin an uncommon short time. A fellow dont think o that when hes mounted, ye see. There now, he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, off we go. But theres no need to overdrive the cattle; well be there in good time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh.
Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.
Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the break of day.
The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength rapidly as they advanced.
There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here, murmured the Indian.
No, all safe! replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain below.
Chapter Two.
The Surprise and Combat
How frequently that slip twixt the cup and the lip is observed in the affairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronounced the words All safe, when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloud of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between the wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on its westward side.
The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although Bald Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy. Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up, and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even time to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in the midst of the village.
The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is not our purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to say here that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too much for their enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive them back towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled together in terror.
Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were galloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance on the part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallop straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as they sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who, observing the look, said:
Im with ee, Whitewing, niver fear.
Does my brother know that we ride to death? asked the Indian in an earnest tone.
Yer brother dont know nothin o the sort, replied the trapper, and, considerin your natur, Id have expected ye to think that Manitou might have some hand in the matter.
The white man speaks wisely, returned the chief, accepting the reproof with a humbled look. We go in His strength.
And once again the latter part of the preachers text seemed to shoot through the Indians brain like a flash of lightlooking unto Jesus.
Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in action. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and, having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to speak. He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its utmost speed, for every moment of time was precious. The said hunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It had been presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in saving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extreme danger. It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore some resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans.
Itll do some execution before I go down, thought Tim, as he regarded the bright blade with an earnest look.
But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day.
In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which had concealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast as possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the combatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts and yells of battle.
For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him. His companions horse was also nearly unmanageable.
My brothers voice is strong. Let him use it well, said the chief abruptly.
Ay, ay, replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; go ahead, my boy. Ill give it out fit to bust the bellows.
Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on his prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe. Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it intensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatants heard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards them with furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death. The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a band just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken in rear. A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim repeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he styled his little carving-knife. The Blackfeet turned and fled right and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups, as being the best way of baffling pursuit.
With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagles men yelled and gave chase. Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.
At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said
My braves, you are a parcel of fools.
Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh and appreciate the compliment, he continued
At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said
My braves, you are a parcel of fools.
Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh and appreciate the compliment, he continued
You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases the leaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Timwhose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knife is biggest of allhave come to our rescue alone. Whitewing tells me there is no one at their backs. If our foes discover their mistake, they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour on themselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on our heads, and overwhelm us by their numbersfor who can withstand numbers? They will scatter us like small dust before the hurricane. Waugh!
The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed Waugh! by which they meant to express entire approval of his sentiments. Now it is my counsel, he continued, that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we should all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say.
Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.
There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the young chief on this occasion.
Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom, he said, stretching forth his right hand, has told you the truth, yet not quite the truth. He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I have come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone. It is true that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitou behind usin frontaround? It was Manitou who sent us here, and it was He who gave us the victory.
Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes directly to their Creator.
And now, he continued, as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore take up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Our band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends, and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without delay.
The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief address, and the old chief again rose up.
My braves, he said, have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun stands there.
He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.
As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.
Follow me, said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief.
Ay, its time to be lookin after her, said Tim, with something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly through the camp.
Well, well, soliloquised the trapper as he followed, I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o mind. Hes ornarily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, youve much to answer for!
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewings steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily read.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
I say, Whitewing, whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approvalfor Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friends welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as prettyI say, is that her?
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
Is that herthe girl, you know? said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
She is my sisterBrighteyes, replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work.
Whew! whistled the trapper. Well, well, he murmured in an undertone, youre on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor lifell turn up soon enough, no doubt. But Im real sorry for the old un, he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. Shell niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin o the nags ud shake her old bones amost out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewingll niver do that. I know him better. Now thenaloudhave ye anything more for me to do?
Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses.
Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chiefs reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
Mother, he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?
I am always ready to do the bidding of my son, replied this pattern mother. But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones.