Читать книгу The Island Trapper; or, The Young White-Buffalo Hunters - T. C. Harbaugh - Страница 4

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While the thrilling scenes recorded above were transpiring on the banks of the Platte, the fate of two beautiful girls was being decided not many miles away.

To this scene we turn, for it is time that one of the most prominent actors in our wild western drama should appear in the mad, relentless role he has to play.

The somber shades of evening were prevailing when two score and six horsemen entered the great village of the Pawnee Loups, situated on the head-waters of the Loup fork of Platte. The hardy mustangs gave forth evidences of fatigue, their flanks reeked with sweat, and several seemed on the eve of dropping to the earth from utter exhaustion.

The mustangs’ riders, with four exceptions, were Indians, great stalwart fellows, naked to the waist, and painted for the murderous foray.

Their leader—let me describe their leader.

He was a white man, whose tanned countenance denoted a roving, restless life. His face was faultless to the minutest particular; his eyes were dark and piercing, like the eagle’s, and an ocean of long raven locks fell ever his rich crimson serape. His head was crowned by a black sombrero, whose snow-white plume swept his silken hair, while his waist was encircled by a crimson scarf, worked with mythological designs in gold thread. His fingers, as white and delicately shaped as a woman’s, glittered with gems, set in hoops of gold—jewels, which were, no doubt, the fruits of a raid upon some rich New Mexican hacienda. The ornamented butts of two revolvers showed themselves above the scarf, and at his side hung a short Spanish sword, whose metallic scabbard, carved with quaint designs, among them the Departure of Boabdil, proclaimed it a relic of early Spanish days.

To complete the fantastic costume of the Pawnees’ king

“Spanish spurs, with bells of steel,

Dashed and jingled at his heel!”

He possessed the air and bearing of one born to command; he could have brought subordination from the most mutinous of Cossack bands, with the flashings of his eyes; he was, to sum up all in a nutshell, “half angel and half Lucifer.”

Such a man, reader, once held the mighty Pawnee nation under his thumb; they could go and come but at his bidding, he could inaugurate a massacre with a word, and save a captive with the same. He was still young, and an American, bred and born.

He seemed proud of his authority as he galloped at the head of his braves into the Indian village, and when he drew rein in the square, if “square” the plot of ground that held the council-house can be called, he raised his symmetrical body in the stirrups, and flashed his eyes over the concourse of noisy people below.

“Conduct the pale-faces to Kenoagla’s lodge!” he cried, suddenly turning to his followers who sat immobile on the backs of their exhausted steeds. “The River Wolf and his braves will guard them till I come.”

At these commands five Indians left their places, and three steeds were led from the band.

To one of these horses a handsome middle-aged white man was bound, while the other blankets, for the only saddle belonging to the marauders crowned the Pale Pawnee’s “buck-skin,” were occupied by two young girls, whose pale, tearful, fearful faces were exceedingly beautiful, and whose garments indicated wealth, but now, how strangely out of place!

“I demand, sir, our release for the last time,” said the gentleman, looking into the dandy demon’s face, as he was led past by a Pawnee. “The Government will not brook such an insult to one of her agents.”

A contemptuous smile curved the white king’s lips, and that smile grew broader when he glanced at the girls, just before his mustache-crowned lips parted in speech.

“I am a king sir!” he answered, proudly flashing the light of his dark eyes upon the captive gentleman. “A free king, sir, at that. I rule this country, as far as your eyes can reach, when the sun has reached the meridian. You see my capital, my subjects, my thunderbolts. Here, in my stronghold, or out on the plains, at the head of my red-boys, I defy the Government that sent you hither. I am an American! I am proud of the name; but I am a king, also. Lead on, Wolf. I will talk to Uncle Sam’s agent at some future time.”

“As sure as my name’s Frank Denison, you shall rue this indignity,” hissed the agent, through clenched teeth. “My Government will not submit to the hellish deeds of an Apache, the brutality—”

“Father, do not imitate the fiend!” interrupted the silvery voice of Mabel Denison. “Fiery words may send the bullet to your brain. We can curse in secret, and it will avail as much as anathemas poured upon his head in thunder tones.”

Frank Denison became silent; but he grated his teeth, and bit his pale lips as he moved on from the renegade’s sight.

Kenoagla did not catch all the young girl’s words; but the appellation bestowed upon him, in her first sentence, fell indistinctly upon his ears, and he flashed a fearful scowl upon her.

“My young lady, you’ll rue that, some of these fine days,” he murmured. “You are completely in my power, and all the gold in the United States Treasury could not ransom you therefrom. And your father—if he gets an opportunity to tell the Government about Tom Kyle, then I’ll give my clothes to Red Eagle, and transform myself into a squaw!”

His white teeth met behind the last word, and the next moment he turned to a young chief that sat near.

“Ready, Red Eagle?”

The Pawnee nodded.

Then the renegade faced his band, and the next moment every steed was riderless.

He, however, retained his perch, and made up to Red Eagle, who was standing on the ground beside his white mustang.

“Up.”

Red Eagle vaulted nimbly to his old perch.

“Follow!”

The renegade touched the flanks of his “buck-skin” with the heavy silver spurs, and through the Pawnee village the twain galloped, toward the river.

Not a word was spoken by either until they drew rein on the bank of the western stream. Then the Pale Pawnee spoke a single word, and they leaped to the ground.

The night had fairly thrown her vail about the face of nature now, and the clear water glittered beautifully beneath the stars, as it pushed its way, with more than one sweet murmur, to the broad bosom of the Platte.

“Now we will settle about the captives,” said the renegade, as they threw themselves upon the rich grass that thrived to the very edge of the water. “I speak truly, chief, when I say that I don’t care which falls to my lot. If you have a preference, speak it, and you shall have my hand on my satisfaction.”

“The pale flowers are beautiful,” answered the Indian, quickly, and with a dash of admiration. “The eyes of one are as blue as the Manitou’s carpet, and her hair shines like the stones which the pale-faces seek for toward the setting sun. Her sister’s eyes are like the night; her hair as black as the crow’s wing. Red Eagle could live with either; but he and the Pale Pawnee will play for them.”

“I am satisfied. Go, get your sticks, chief, and let me guess as soon as possible.”

His tones proclaimed much impatience, and he watched the Indian move up the stream in the demi-gloom.

“Playing guess for a wife!” he ejaculated with a smile, when Red Eagle had passed beyond hearing distance. “I’ve got to humor that accursed red-skin, too. He’s becoming uncommon popular—too popular for me! I have more foes in this village than I ever had, and I find it pretty difficult to rule them. If that chap was out of my way! He’s doing all the mischief, and doing it so infernal slyly, too. He’s the best dissimulator this side the Rockies, and I can’t circumvent him. I know I stand over the crater of a volcano, and the fire that burns under my feet is his heart—his accursed scheming heart.”

“Who Pale Pawnee talking to?”

Tom Kyle started, and almost sprung to his feet.

The chief stood before him, his left hand gently clenched.

“Red Eagle could find no sticks,” he said, smiling at the renegade’s surprise. “But he has found a black stone and a yellow one. The black stone is the flower with midnight hair; the yellow stone is her sister.”

Then Red Eagle suddenly whirled and dexterously changed the pebbles, while his face was turned from his white companion.

“Now!” he cried, facing Kyle again. “Each of Eagle’s hands holds a stone. Let the Pale Pawnee touch one. If he touches the hand that holds the yellow stone, the fairest skinned is his, the black-haired one Red Eagle’s.”

The great red hands were outstretched toward the renegade, side by side, and the guesser stood before them, a statue of indecision.

He had a preference—his face told his red companion that—and he did not want to guess the girl he desired into Red Eagle’s hands. He inspected the fists a long time before he raised his hand, and then he held his finger over the chief’s right member, unwilling to see it descend.

All at once he threw a slight glance upward through his long black lashes.

The Indian’s eyes were riveted upon his finger, and a strange smile, which the renegade deemed one of triumph, toyed with his handsome lips.

“I’ll catch him!” mentally ejaculated the renegade, dropping his eyes to his hand again. “I’ll cheat him out of the blonde, yet.”

The next moment his finger took a great leap, and alighted on Red Eagle’s left hand.

The Indian laughed triumphantly, and opened his hand.

The black stone glittered in the red palm.

The Pale Pawnee could not repress a cry of rage and disappointment.

“Kenoagla wanted the Gold Girl,” said Red Eagle, calmly; “but she has fallen to the lot of the Pawnee. She shall build his fires and warm his couch when the snow comes.”

Tom Kyle bit his nether lip till the blood dyed his chin.

“Would not Red Eagle have been content with the dark flower?”

“Yes.”

“I will give him the dark flower, then, for the gold one.”

The Indian drew back.

“No, no!”

“I’ll throw this serape into the bargain. You have coveted it for five years.”

“Red Eagle won’t sell the Gold Girl.”

“Not for the darker flower, my serape and sword?”

“No!”

“Then he shall keep her! The Pale Pawnee will love his captive, and he hopes that the gold flower will thrive in Red Eagle’s lodge.”

With the last word, he put forth his hand, and in the soft starlight the palms of red and white met.

It was the grip of a Cæsar and his Brutus—the silent pledge, beneath friendship’s cloak, of hatred and treason bitter and intense.

“The fate of the pale flower is settled now—settled forever, chief. One is mine, the other yours. I’ll settle the insulting agent’s doom hereafter.”

A few moments later the arbiters of others’ fates remounted their steeds and rode toward the Pawnee lodges.

They did not cast their eyes behind as they galloped from the river, therefore they did not see the figure which suddenly appeared on the scene, and stood between them and the silver of the starlit waves.

“The Gold Girl is his,” said a woman’s voice, stern with terrible sarcasm and determination. “Winnesaw thought she was his. But who is this Gold Girl? Where did she come from, and where is her father’s lodge? Ha! Kenoagla has returned from the war-path; his band has struck the pale-faces who travel along the big river to the land of yellow stones. He found two girls there—dark and gold. They played for them here to-night. Kenoagla wanted the Gold Girl, but he got the dark one. But he shall have the Gold Girl—at least Red Eagle shall never see her asleep, like the fawn, on his couch. Winnesaw is Red Eagle’s—the Gold Girl is not.”

The slender and beautiful Pawnee girl grew into a very Pythoness as, with clenched hands and gritted teeth, she stood on the spot which the secret enemies had just vacated.

Several moments of silence followed her last word, when she suddenly tore herself from the river-bank, and darted toward the village, hidden by the darkness.

“The Gold Girl—the Gold Girl!” she repeated, in an audible tone, as she bounded over the ground. “Winnesaw is going to see the Gold Girl, whom Red Eagle won to-night.”

Poor, unloved Winnesaw!

She never dreamed what would follow her meeting with Lina Aiken, the “Gold Girl.”