Читать книгу Softfoot of Silver Creek - Robert Leighton - Страница 12

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“DO not be afraid,” said Softfoot. “The paleface people are our best friends.”

“But one of them has a gun,” urged Little Antelope, raising himself on his knees. “He has seen us! Paddle quickly! He is going to shoot at us. See! He is under the birch trees on the high bluff!”

Softfoot could see the man, standing hardly a bow-shot’s distance away, taking aim at the canoe with his rifle. He seemed to have been posted on the bluff on sentry duty. Little Antelope lifted his bow and gripped the arrow on its string.

“Wait!” commanded Softfoot. “Take care!”

But even as he spoke there was a puff of powder-smoke from the gun. A bullet hummed like a bee over his head and struck the red cliff beyond him.

The report of the rifle-shot alarmed the men working in the gulch. They threw down their picks and shovels and ran to the side of Silver Creek, drawing their revolvers as they ran; and the quiet air was soon filled with the crackle of gunfire.

Softfoot flung his paddle over to the off side, and he and Prairie Owl forced the canoe along at high speed. They were both at the same side now. Their weight bore the canoe down so that its other side, rising well above their shoulders, formed a shield against the rain of bullets, while Antelope and Mosquito Child shot their well-aimed arrows over the higher rim, shooting only when they felt sure of hitting their mark.

Little Antelope, who had been afraid of the unknown dangers of Red Squaw Cañon, saw no peril in exposing himself to the deliberate aim of these strange men with their repeating rifles and revolvers. All his Indian joy in fighting a visible foe was alert. With his moccasined feet well planted, he kept his balance in the swiftly moving canoe, and as he leaned with his hip supported against the elevated gunwale and his arms and shoulders free, he sent his arrows flashing in quick succession across the dividing water, as if he were engaged in some boyish game instead of a life-and-death encounter.

He saw two of the men draw back wounded. Most of them had now abandoned their revolvers for Winchester rifles, and some were scrambling up the bluffs to get better aim at the quickly passing canoe.

“More arrows!” cried Antelope. He turned and reached out his right arm, red from a bullet wound.

At this moment, as the canoe swayed yet more perilously over, a rifle bullet tore its way through the thin bark shell below the waterline, and when, having seized two new arrows, Little Antelope moved back to his former position to renew his shooting, the canoe swayed with him and a strong jet of water spurted in through the bullet-hole.

Softfoot realized that here was a new danger. He tried to plug the leak with a corner of his blanket, twisted round an arrow shaft. But the water still streamed in.

“Quick!” he cried. “All of you paddle hard! When we get to the bank, seize your blankets, our meat, and everything you can save. Take cover in the bushes.”

Already they were past the opening of Ghost Pine Gulch, and the rise of the next hill hid them from the white men. They made for a gap in the opposite bank and were in time to fling their outfit ashore before the canoe settled down.

Softfoot slipped off his moccasins, waded in, and pushed the craft back into deeper water, where it sank out of sight. Then with dry-shod feet, which would leave no betraying tracks on the sun-baked rocks, he crept to the cover of the nearest boulder and waited.

His three companions had vanished like startled gophers. After awhile, he cautiously raised his head and looked searchingly across the creek. Two of the white men with guns in hand were moving among the trees on the opposite bluff, peering down at the creek, evidently perplexed at the sudden complete disappearance of the canoe and its occupants.

One of them looked straight across to the boulder where Softfoot crouched watching him. Softfoot did not move even an eyelash, and the two of them turned away.

Taking up a stone, Softfoot lightly tapped it three times on the face of the boulder. From among the aspen and birch bushes far behind him came three answering stone-taps.

His eyes darted a quick glance in the direction from which the sound had come, and he saw a twig trembling as if a bird had just left its perch. He gathered his blanket and weapons, and snaked his way up the slope, always being careful not to stir the long reeds of sage grass and to keep his coloured blanket out of sight, lest the enemy should still be searching.

When he joined his three companions he caught up Little Antelope’s wounded arm. Little Antelope had been a wise Indian. He had wrapped his blanket round the wound so that the blood should leave no tracks on the ground which could be followed.

It was a clean flesh wound. The bullet had torn through the muscles of the lower arm, not touching the bone.

“I am sorry because I cannot get the scalp of the paleface who shot me, even when my arrow trembled in his shoulder,” Little Antelope regretted. “But I shall be very proud to show the Pawnees that I have been wounded in a real fight. It is great medicine!”

Softfoot took a spare bowstring of plaited sinew from his pack and tied it very tightly round the upper arm above the elbow. In the pure clean air the wound would soon be clogged with congealed blood, and the string would then be removed.

From their place of ambush they could not see into Ghost Pine Gulch or learn if their enemies were still searching for them.

“We are safe,” said Softfoot. “They cannot cross the creek without canoes. My medicine tells me that they think we have been wiped out. We will let them think so. But I want to know what secret thing it is that has brought these paleface men into the Mishe-mokwa Reserve. I will find out. Go, my brothers. I walk alone. We will sleep to-night in Black Panther Forest.” He pointed in its direction. “It is a far trail. I shall see your scouting signs. I shall see your fire-smoke and know where to find you.”

Prairie Owl gave him a piece of dried buffalo meat and a handful of sarvis berries, and he ate as he walked off under cover of the high bank that hid him from the creek.

He made his way stealthily to the top of the wooded bluff which faced the opening of Ghost Pine Gulch. Its far side dropped steeply into Silver Creek, forming a bare red cliff. He glided silently amid the warm-scented fir trees, treading softly on the carpet of pine needles, until he came into the sunlight, when he went down on hands and knees and crept like a snake to the edge of the cliff where he could look down into the gulch. There he lay at his full length, silent and motionless, as if he were a part of the cliff itself, watching the strange men.

They were not hunting; they were not catching fish or setting beaver traps. Yet they were laboriously at work about the watercourse and among the boulders. Some were using picks and shovels. They seemed to be gathering the dirt from the bed of the shrunken stream—it was a tiny rivulet rather than a flowing creek. Some were shovelling this dirt into great dumps and into long, flat frames, or troughs, through which water trickled. Others stood with bent backs, shaking wooden trays between their knees.

Softfoot could not understand. He only knew that these strange white men were trespassing on the Pawnees’ territory which was forbidden to them. They were doing something unlawful and in secret. That was why they had opened fire upon the canoe, fearing that they had been discovered by the Pawnee scouts. But what did they want? Why had they left their own land, taking a weary trail over mountain and prairie to make camp in a desolate gulch where there were no buffaloes to hunt, no bushes of ripe berries, and where even their horses could find little to eat but grass that was parched by the hot sun?

No; he could not understand. However long he might lie watching them, he could learn no more.

He crept back to the rear of the bluff and threaded his way through the larches down to the level ground, where he broke into a steady run. There was no trail for him to follow, no sign to tell him his way. The landmarks were strange to him; he might easily have been lost, as often he had been. But he knew as by instinct that he was going in the right direction for Black Panther Forest, and he aimed at taking a nearer way than the one that Prairie Owl would be leading.

After climbing many hills, passing through a maze of woodland and across a wide stretch of prairie, he came suddenly upon a beaten trail, where the grass was worn down and the dry dust turned up by the hoofs of horses that had been galloping both east and west at different times.

The hoofs were shod. One set of them was not many hours old, and another was even more recent. These latter led in his own direction, and he followed them, thinking the while of the man Blue Eye. But the marks were smaller than those made by Blue Eye’s great horse.

The trail curved round a bluff of cottonwood trees. Suddenly Softfoot slackened his pace. His hand went to his knife, but was quickly withdrawn and held up, palm outward, in sign of peace.

“How!” he called aloud.

A saddled pony with its reins dropped over its feet stood at the side of the trail twitching its ears and swishing its long tail while the flies buzzed noisily. Near the pony a young plainsman sat hunched on a tree-root. He was smoking, with his elbows on his knees. Between his dusty, spurred boots there was a small wicker basket covered with a white cloth on which a wasp had alighted. He was blowing smoke at the wasp. He looked up casually as Softfoot halted in front of him.

“Scoutin’ around?” he inquired idly. “What’s doin’? I seen three other guys same’s yourself back along the trail couple of hours since. One had a lame arm. Looked like as he’d bin havin’ gun-play. Couldn’t make ’em savvy my talk. Seemed they was some scared seein’ a white man. What?”

Softfoot shook his head, not understanding a word. While he stood admiring the waiting pony, wondering why its coat was so clean and dry and why its rider was not in the saddle, he was aware of the sound of swiftly galloping hoofs approaching along the trail. In a few moments a hard-ridden pony rounded the bend and came into sight, breathing heavily, white with alkali dust and clammy with sweat.

Softfoot noticed that its rider was hardly more than a boy, dark almost as an Indian, wearing moccasins, fringed leggings, and a brace of revolvers. He pulled up abruptly, dismounted, took off his wide hat and wiped his perspiring good-looking face.

“How goes, Tex?” he said cheerfully; and glancing aside at Softfoot, he added: “Who’s your visitor, Tex? Looks like a Pawnee. One of Great Bear’s lot, I guess. Say, I got a thirst. Anything to drink?”

Tex had stood up.

“Same as usual, Kiddie,” he answered, opening the basket. “Cold tea, hard-boiled eggs, already stripped, ham flappers, an’ a heap of ripe plums. You’re inside of schedule time. Take things easy. Have a good eat.”

“Empty the plums in my Stetson,” said Kiddie. “I’ll eat ’em as I ride along on the next section.”

He dropped his wide-brimmed hat, quickly transferred the two little mail-bags from the saddle of his exhausted mount to the saddle of the fresh relay pony. Then taking an egg and a sandwich and beginning to eat, he again bent his large eyes upon Softfoot.

“Are there no ponies handy that an Indian must cross the prairie trails in his moccasins?” he inquired, speaking in good Pawnee.

Softfoot answered: “My brothers and I took our canoe through Red Squaw Cañon. In Ghost Pine Gulch there were many paleface men. They fired upon us with their guns. They broke our canoe. That is why I walk. Softfoot is my name.”

“Mine is Little Cayuse,” said the express rider, holding the basket invitingly forward. “Softfoot will perhaps eat with Little Cayuse, and tell him what these white men were doing in the Pawnee country. Speak quickly, friend Softfoot. My time is precious. No, take more.”

Softfoot told him what he had seen. Kiddie then took a long drink of the cold tea, strode up to the relay pony and hung the bridle rein over the pommel.

“Say, Tex,” he said quietly, speaking now in the language of the plains, “thar’s a gang of fool prospectors trespassin’ on the Silver Creek Reserve. They’ve struck gold in Ghost Pine Gulch. They’re breakin’ the law. Understand? If they don’t quit, there’ll sure be a heap of trouble. We shall have the redskins out on the war-path. If you happen on Buckskin Jack, let him know about this, will you?”

“Kiddie, I seen Buckskin Jack a couple of days back,” responded Tex. “He’d just been along to Great Bear’s village doin’ a trick turn at buffalo huntin’. He never said nothin’ about gold-diggers.”

Kiddie had his foot in the stirrup. He turned to Softfoot.

“I hear the Pawnees have been out on the buffalo trail,” he said. “There was a white man hunting with them. Did you see him?”

“It is true,” returned Softfoot. “He killed many buffaloes. His medicine is great. We named him Blue Eye.”

“Blue Eye?” repeated Kiddie, leaping lightly to his saddle and reaching for his hat, now heavy with gorgeous plums. “Well, yes, I allow Buck’s eyes are real forget-me-not blue.”

He waved his free hand as he galloped off along the trail on the fresh pony, and soon he was hidden in a cloud of prairie dust.

Tex slung the empty basket on his arm and led the tired pony away.

“Wish I c’d pow-wow with that Injun the same as Birkenshaw’s Kiddie,” he said to himself. “But Kiddie’s top-notch every time.”

About a mile farther along the trail, Softfoot came upon a scout sign of three white stones and a pointer. But already in the blue distance he could make out the dark patch of timber that indicated the fringe of Black Panther Forest. He crossed a stretch of rolling prairie, forded a narrow creek, and climbed over the shoulder of a rugged mountain into the valley beyond. Even as he was descending he discovered that the lower ground was heavily marked by the tracks of many horses. He hastened his steps. The tracks were quite new. He was perplexed.

He went to and fro, exercising his scoutcraft, learning many things. Many of the horses had gone in single file; others had been loosely driven, like cattle. At one place the ground was kicked up as if there had been trouble. The hoof-marks were mingled with the prints of moccasined feet. He studied these intently. They were not Pawnee-made moccasins, which are rigid in the sole; but soft and pliable, showing the impressions of the separate toes.

But among them there was one pair, very small and flat. He followed them a few paces to where there had evidently been a struggle. Here he saw that the right foot of the pair was now naked. It was a small, neat foot, the foot of a woman or girl who had seemingly been trying to escape.

He searched about eagerly. Was the girl a captive? He felt assured that the Indians were of the Cree nation, not Pawnees. What had happened? Then, as he searched, his eyes were arrested by something shaped like a foot lying half buried in the sand. He seized it, turned it over. It was a girl’s moccasin of white doeskin trimmed with blue and white beads, and edged with ermine. One glance was enough. Softfoot knew that moccasin. It was Wenonah’s.

And now Wenonah was a captive, forcibly carried off by the enemy Crees!