These were the observations we had made, and the reflections that resulted from them. We only wondered that our enemies had not yet perceived the advantage of this plan of attack; and, since they had neglected it so long, we were in hopes that the idea would not occur to them at all. It was not long before we perceived our error; and that we had miscalculated the cunning of our dusky foes. We saw the Indians once more taking to their horses. Some order had reached them from the Red-Hand, who stood conspicuous in the midst of the largest group of his warriors. The movement that resulted from this order was similar to that already practised in the endeavour to stampede our animals: only that all the band took part in it—even the chiefs mounting and riding among the rest. The marksmen alone remained afoot, and continued to fire from behind their horses.

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Once more the mounted warriors commence galloping in circles round the butte. We perceive that at each wheel they are coming nearer, and can divine their intent. It is the very plan of attack we have been apprehending! We can tell by their gestures that they are about to charge forward to the rocks.

Regardless of the fire from the plain, we creep back to the edge of the parapet, and point our pieces towards the circling horsemen. We are excited with, new apprehensions; but the caution to keep cool is once more passed around; and each resolves not to fire without being certain of his aim. On our first shots will depend the success or failure of the attack. As before, we arrange that two only shall fire at a time. If the shots prove true, and two of our foes fall to them, it may check the charge, perhaps repulse it altogether? Such often happens with an onset of Indians—on whom the dread of the fire-weapon acts with a mysterious effect. On the other hand, if we miss, our fate is sealed and certain. We shall not even have the choice of that last desperate resort, on which we have built a hope. We shall be cut off from all escape: for our animals will be gone before we can reach them. On foot, it will be idle to attempt flight. Even could we run the gauntlet through their line, we know they could overtake us upon the plain!

We feel like men about to throw dice for our lives, and dice too that are loaded against us! Nearer and nearer they come, until they are coursing within fifty yards of the butte, and scarcely twice that distance from our guns. Were their bodies uncovered, we could reach them; but we see only their hands, feet, and faces—the latter only at intervals. They draw nearer and nearer, till at length they are riding within the circle of danger. Our superior elevation gives us the advantage. We begin to see their bodies over the backs of their horses. A little nearer yet, and some of these horses will go riderless over the plain! Ha! they have perceived their danger—one and all of them. Notwithstanding their cries of bravado, and mutual encouragement, they dread to make the final rush. Each fears that himself may be the victim!

Our heads were growing dizzy with watching them, and we were still expecting to see some of them turn their horses, and dash inward to the butte; when we heard a signal-cry circulating through their ranks. All at once the foremost of them was seen swerving off, followed by the whole troop! Before we could recover from our surprise, they had galloped far beyond the range of our guns, and once more stood halted upon the plain!



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

A RAMPART ON WHEELS.

For a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of apprehension was removed. We fancied the savages had either not yet become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from making the attempt. They had abandoned their design, whatever it was; and intended waiting for night—the favourite fighting-time of the Indian. This was just what we desired; and we were congratulating ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour. Our joy was short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose. Clustered upon the plain, they still kept to their horses. By this, we knew that some other movement was intended. The chiefs were again in the centre of the crowd, the Red-Hand conspicuous. He was heard haranguing his warriors, though we could not guess the purport of his speech. His gestures told of fierce rage—his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened a spirit of implacable vengeance. At the conclusion of his speech, he waved his hand in the direction of the waggon. The gesture appeared to be the accompaniment of a command. It was promptly and instantly obeyed. A dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off. Their course was straight up the valley—towards the scene of their late strife. Those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were seen giving their horses to the grass. This might have led us to anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not. The attitude of our enemies was not that of purposed repose. On the contrary, they came together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager consultation. The chiefs spoke in turn. Some new scheme was being discussed. We watched the party who had ridden off. As anticipated, the waggon proved to be the butt of their excursion. Having reached it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it. It is impossible for some time to tell what they are doing. Even the glass does not reveal the nature of their movements. There are others besides those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark cluster of men and horses. Their errand at length becomes obvious. The crowd is seen to scatter. Horses appear harnessed to the tongue—the wheels are in motion—the vehicle is turning round upon the plain. We see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon their backs as teamsters! They make a wheel, and head down the valley in the direction of the butte. They are seen urging the animals into a rapid pace. The waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth sward. The horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough rapidity of a mountain howitzer. In a few minutes, it advances to the ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its arrival.

We upon the summit have a full view of all. We recognise the well-known Troy waggon—with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof. The lettering, "Troy, New York," is legible on the tilt—a strange sight in the midst of its present possessors! What can be their object with the waggon? Their actions leave us not long in doubt. The horses are unharnessed and led aside. Half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes. As many more stand behind—screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing. The pole projects in the direction of the mound!

Their object is now too painfully apparent. Without thinking of the analogy of the Trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern Troy is about to be employed for a similar purpose. Yes—shielded by the thick planking of its bed—by its head and hind boards—by its canvas covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety. Such is their design. With dismay, we perceive it. We can do nought either to retard or hinder its execution. Those under the vehicle can "spoke" the wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim. Even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets hang over, draping the wheels from our view. Those behind are equally well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger. We note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension. We adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none is possible. We are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness.

We are allowed but little time to reflect upon it. Amidst the shouts of the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in motion! Onward it comes toward the mound—advancing with apparently spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster—some horrid mammoth—approaching to destroy and devour us!

Had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us with a greater dread. We felt that our destruction was equally certain. The savages would now surround us—advance up the rocks—spring upon us from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death—which we had determined to do—still must we die. The knowledge that we should die fighting, and with arms in our hands—that we should fall upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with life—this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us. Though no cowards—not one of us—we could not look forward to our fate, without a feeling of dread. The certainty of that fate we could no longer question. Even the time seemed to be fixed. In a few minutes, the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last struggle of our lives—without the slightest probability of being able to save them!



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

THE ASSAULT.

With the prospect of such fatal issue—so proximate as to seem already present—no wonder that our hearts were dismayed at sight of the waggon moving towards us. As the inhabitants of a leaguered city behold with fear the advance of the screened catapult or mighty "ram," so regarded we the approach of that familiar vehicle—now a very monster in our eyes. We were not permitted to view the spectacle in perfect security. As the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their uncertain but dangerous shower. With the bullets hissing above and around us, we were forced to lie low—only at intervals raising our heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm.

Slowly but surely the machine moved on—its wheels turning under the impulse of brawny arms—and impelled forward by pressure from behind. To fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been thrown away. As easily might they have pierced through a stockade of tree-trunks. Oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to have crashed through those planks of oak and ash—to have scattered in death, that human machinery that was giving them motion! Slowly and steadily it moved on—stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself to the wheel—then on again as the obstacle was surmounted—on till the intervening space was passed over, and the triumphant cheer of our savage foemen announced the attainment of their object.

Risking the straggling shots, we looked over. The waggon had reached the base of the butte; its tongue was forced up among the trees—its body stood side by side with the granite prisms. The storming party no longer required it as a shield: they would be sufficiently sheltered by the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves—passing from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the butte. We observed this movement, but could not prevent it. We saw the Indians flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of lightning flashes! In vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight. We ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our ramparts.

A moment of suspense followed. We knew not how to act: we were puzzled by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making them. Did they intend to climb up the butte, and openly attack us? What else should be their design? What other object could they have in surrounding it? Only about a dozen had approached under cover of the waggon. Was it likely that so few of them would assail us boldly and openly? No. Beyond a doubt, they had some other design! Ha! what means that blue column slowly curling upward? It is smoke! See! Another and another—a dozen of them! From all sides they shoot upward, encircling the mound! Hark to those sounds! the "swish" of burning grass—the crackle of kindling sticks? They are making fires around us! The columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense. They spread out and join each other—they become attracted towards the rocky mass—they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its summit in their ramifications. The platform is enveloped in the cloud! We see the savages upon the plain—dimly, as if through a crape. Those with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are dismounting. The latter abandon their horses, and appear to be advancing on foot. Their forms through the magnifying mist loom spectral and gigantic! They are visible only for a moment. The smoke rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our sight. We no longer see our enemy or the earth. The sky is obscured— even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to the other!

Throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with fierce thrilling import. We hear the crackling of faggots, and the spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze—only the thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser around us. We can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated. Any form of death before this! Is it too late to reach our horses? Doubtless, they are already snatched away? No matter: we cannot remain where we are. In five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia.

"No! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!" Voices husky and hoarse make answer in the affirmative.

We spring to our feet, and come together—so that we can touch each other. We grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols. We make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, assure ourselves of the path. We grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each side. We go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a desperate need. We are met by the masses of smoke still rolling upwards. Further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the crackling fires. We heed them not, but rush madly forward—till we have cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain!

It is but escaping from the fires of hell to rush into the midst of its demons. On all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished clubs. Amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompass us. For a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our foes. But we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen assailants around him!

The struggle was not protracted. So far as I was concerned, it ended, almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades. A blow from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought—that it was death!



CHAPTER SIXTY.

A CAPTIVE ON A CRUCIFIX.

Am I dead? Surely it was death, or an oblivion that equalled it? But no—I live! I am conscious that I live. Light is falling upon my eyes—thought is returning to my soul! Am I upon earth? or is it another world in which I awake? It is a bright world—with a sky of blue, and a sun of gold; but are they the sky and sun of the earth? Both may belong to a future world? I can see no earth—neither fields, nor trees, nor rocks, nor water—nought but the blue canopy and the golden orb. Where is the earth? It should be under and around me, but I cannot see it. Neither around nor beneath can I look—only upward and forward—only upon the sun and the sky! What hinders me from turning? Is it that I sleep, and dream? Is the incubus of a horrid nightmare upon me? Am I, like Prometheus, chained to a rock face upward? No—not thus; I feel that I am standing—erect as if nailed against a wall! If I am not dreaming, I am certainly in an upright attitude. I feel my limbs beneath me; while my arms appear to be stretched out to their full extent, and held as in the grasp of some invisible hand! My head, too, is fixed: I can neither turn nor move it. A cord traverses across my cheeks. There is something between my teeth. A piece of wood it appears to be? It gags me, and half stifles my breathing! Am I in human hands? or are they fiends who are thus clutching me?

Anon my senses grow stronger, but wild fancies still mock me: I am yet uncertain if it be life! What are those dark objects passing before my eyes? They are birds upon the wing—large birds of sable plumage. I know them. They are vultures. They are of the earth. Such could not exist in a region of spirits? Ah! those sounds! they are weird enough to be deemed unearthly—wild enough to be mistaken for the voices of demons. From far beneath, they appear to rise—as if from the bowels of the earth, sinking and swelling in prolonged chorus. I know and recognise the voices: they are human. I know the chaunted measure: it is the death-song of the Indian! The sounds are suggestive. I am not dreaming—I am not dead. I am awake, and on the earth.

Memory comes to my aid. By little and little, I begin to realise my situation. I remember the siege—the smoke—the confused conflict—all that preceded it, but nothing after. I thought I had been killed. But no—I live—I am a captive. My comrades—are they alive? Not likely. Better for them, if they be not. The consciousness of life need be no comfort to me. In that wild chaunt there is breathing a keen spirit of vengeance. Oh! that I had not survived to hear it! Too surely do I know what will follow that dirge of death. It might as well be my own!

I am in pain. My position pains me—and the hot sun glaring upon my cheek. My arms and limbs smart under thongs that bind too tightly. One crosses my throat that almost chokes me, and the stick between my teeth renders breathing difficult. There is a pain upon the crown of my head, and my skull feels as if scalded. Oh Heavens! have they scalped me? With the thought, I endeavour to raise my hand. In vain: I cannot budge either hand or arm. Not a finger can I move; and I am forced to remain in horrid doubt as to whether the hair be still upon my head—with more than a probability that it is gone! But how am I confined? and where? I am fast bound to something: every joint in my body is fixed and immobile, as if turned to stone! I can feel thongs cutting sharply into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting substance, that seems as hard as rock. I cannot tell what it is. I cannot even see my own person—neither breast nor body—neither arms nor legs—not an inch of myself. The fastening over my face holds it upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set—as if the vertebral column of my neck had become ossified into a solid mass!

And where am I in this stringent attitude? I am conscious that I am a captive and bound—a captive to Indians—to Arapahoes. Memory helps me to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano—by the Orphan Butte. Ha! why should I not be upon the butte—on its summit? I remember going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth. For all that, I may have been brought up again. The savages may have borne me back to satisfy some whim? They often act in such strange fashion with, their vanquished victims. I must be on some eminence: since I cannot see the earth before me? In all likelihood, I am on the top of the mound. This will account for my not having a view of the ground. It will also explain the direction in which the voices are reaching me. Those who utter them are below upon the plain?

The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my ears. I hear shouts that appear to be signals—words of command in the fierce guttural of the Arapaho. Other sounds seem nearer. I distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. They are Indian voices. As I listen they grow more distinct. The speakers are approaching me—the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground beneath my feet! They draw nigher and nigher. They are close to where I stand—so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body—but still I see them not. Their heads are below the line of my vision. I feel a hand—knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. I shudder with a horrid thought. I mistake the purpose. I hear the "wheek" that announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. The thong slackens, and drops off from my cheeks. My head is free: but the piece of wood between my teeth—it remains still gagging me firmly. I cannot get rid of that.

I can now look below, and around me. I perceive the correctness of my conjecture. I am on the butte—upon its summit. I am close to the edge of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below. A painted Arapaho is standing on each side of me. One is a common warrior, with nought to distinguish him from his fellows. The other is a chief. Even without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage are easily identified. They are those of Red-Hand the truculent chieftain of the Arapahoes.

Now for the first time do I perceive that I am naked. From the waist upward, there is not a rag upon me—arms, breast, and body all bare! This does not surprise me. It is natural that the robbers should have stripped me—that they should at least have taken my coat, whose yellow buttons are bright gold in the eyes of the Indian. But I am now to learn that for another, and very different, purpose have they thus bereft me of my garments. Now also do I perceive the fashion in which I am confined. I am erect upon my feet, with arms stretched out to their full fathom. My limbs are lashed to an upright post; and, with the same thong, are my arms tied to a transverse beam. I am bound upon a cross!



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

THE MYSTERIOUS CIRCLE.

In an exulting tone, the savage chief broke silence. "Bueno!" cried he, as soon as he saw that my eyes were upon him—"bueno, bueno! The pale-face still lives! the heart of the Red-Hand is glad of it—ha, ha, ha! Give him to drink of the fire-water of Taos! Let him be strong! Fill him with life, that death may be all the more bitter to him!"

These orders were delivered to his follower, who, in obedience to them, removed the gag; and, holding to my lips a calabash filled with Taos whiskey, poured a quantity of the liquor down my throat. The beverage produced the effect which the savage chief appeared to desire. Scarcely had I swallowed the fiery spirit when my strength and senses were restored to their full vigour—but only to make me feel more keenly the situation in which I stood—to comprehend more acutely the appalling prospect that was before me. This was the design in resuscitating me. No other purpose had the cruel savage. Had I entertained any doubt as to the motive, his preliminary speech would have enlightened me; but it was made still clearer by that which followed.

"Dog of a pale-face!" cried he, brandishing a long Spanish knife before my eyes; "you shall see how the Red-Hand can revenge himself upon the enemies of his race. The slayer of Panthers, and the White Eagle, shall die a hundred deaths. They have mocked the forest maiden, who has followed them from afar. Her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the Red-Hand will have his joy—ha, ha, ha!"

Uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the Indian held the point of the knife close to my forehead—as if about to drive the blade into my eyes! It was but a feint to produce terror—a spectacle which this monster was said to enjoy.

Wingrove was still alive: the wretch Su-wa-nee must be near?

"Carajo!" again yelled the savage. "What promised you the Red-Hand? To cut the living flesh from your bones? But no—that would be merciful. The Arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance—one that will appease the spirits of our slain warriors. We shall combine sport with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs—ha, ha, ha!"

After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his words of menace, the monster continued:

"Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before you die—ha, ha! You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have prepared for you! Ugh!"

"Haste!" he continued, addressing himself to his follower; "prepare him for the sacrifice! Our warriors are impatient for the sport. The blood of our brothers is calling for vengeance. This in white, with a red spot in the centre—the rest of his body in black."

These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture. With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast—just as if he had been scribing it on the bark of a tree. The scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words "red spot in the centre," as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a word—either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. In the wolf's visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty. I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made. It was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it. After giving some further directions to his follower—and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone—he passed behind me; and I lost sight of him. But I could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain.

It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that I had a thought of looking in that direction. During all the while that the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant death—or of some equally fearful issue. The gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. I there beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me with horror. Not so then. The agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. Even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. It was a sight I had anticipated. They could not all be alive.



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

A SAVAGE ARTIST.

The ensanguined skull was the first object that caught my eye. The dead man was easily identified. The body—short, plump, and rotund—could be no other than that of the unfortunate Irishman. His jacket had been stripped off; but some tattered remnants of sky-blue, still clinging to his legs, aided me in identifying him. Poor fellow! The lure of Californian metal had proved an ill star for him. His golden dream was at an end. He was lying along the sward, upon his side, half doubled up. I could not see his face. His hands were over it, with palms spread out—as if shading his eyes from the sun! It was a position of ordinary repose; and one might have fancied him asleep. But the gory crown, and red mottling upon the shirt—seemingly still wet—forbade the supposition. He slept; but it was the sleep of death!

My eyes wandered in search of the others. There were fires burning. They were out upon the plain, some three hundred yards from the base of the butte. They had been lately kindled: for their smoke was rising in thick columns, part of it falling again to the earth. Around the fires, and through the smoke, flitted the forms of the Indians. They appeared to be cooking and feasting. Some of them staggering over the ground, kept up an incessant babble—at intervals varying their talk with savage whoops. Others danced around accompanying their leaps with the monotonous "hi-hi-hi-ya." All appeared to have partaken freely of the fire-water of Taos. A few more seriously disposed were grouped around four or five prostrate forms—evidently the bodies of their slain. The two we had shot from their horses must have been amongst these: since they were no longer to be seen where they had fallen. Those around the bodies stood hand in hand chanting the dismal death-song.

Not far from the fires, a group fixed my attention. It consisted of three figures—all in attitudes as different as it was possible to place them in. He who lay along the ground, upon his back, was the young hunter Wingrove. He still wore his fringed buckskin shirt and leggings; and by these I recognised him. He was at too great a distance for his features to be distinguished. He appeared to be bound hand and foot— with his ankles lashed together, and his wrists tied behind his back. He was thus lying upon his arms, in an irksome position; but the attitude showed that he was alive. I knew it already.

Some half-dozen paces from him was a second form, difficult to be recognised as that of a human being—though it was one. It was the body of Jephthah Bigelow. Its very oddness of shape enabled me to identify it—odder from the attitude in which I now beheld it. It was lying flat along the grass, face downward, the long ape-like legs and arms stretched out to their full extent—both as to length and width—and radiating from the thin trunk, like spokes from the nave of a wheel! Viewing it from my elevated position, this attitude appeared all the more ludicrous; though it was easy to perceive that it was not voluntary. The numerous pegs standing up from the sward, and the cords attached to them, and leading to the arms and limbs, showed that the spread-eagle position was a constrained one. That it was Sure-shot, I had no doubt. The spare locks of clay-coloured hair were playing about in the breeze; and some remnants of bottle-green still clung around his limbs. But without these, the spider-like frame was too characteristic to be mistaken. I was glad to see those yellowish tufts. They told that the wearer still lived—as was also made manifest by the fact of his being bound. A dead body would not have merited such particular treatment.

It was the third figure of this group that most strongly claimed my attention. I saw that it was not that of a warrior; though quite as tall as many upon the plain. But the contour of the form was different—as also the fashion of the garments that draped it. It was the figure of a woman! Had I not been guided in my conjectures—by a certain foreknowledge—by the allusions that had occurred in the speeches of Red-Hand—I should never have dreamt of identifying that form. Forewarned by these, the apparition was not unexpected. The woman was Su-wa-nee! She was standing erect by the prostrate form of the young hunter—her head slightly bent, and her face turned towards him. An occasional motion of her arm showed that she was speaking to him. The gesture seemed to indicate a threat! Was it possible that in that dread hour she was reviling him? I was at too great a distance, either to hear her words, or note the expression upon her face. Only by the dumb show of her gesticulations, could I tell that a scene was passing between them.

A glance around the plain enabled me to note some other changes that had recently taken place. The horses of the Indians were now picketed upon the grass, and browsing peacefully—as if the clangour of strife had never sounded in their ears. I could see my own Arab a little apart, with Wingrove's horse and the mules—all in the charge of a horse-guard, who stood sentry near them. The waggon was still by the base of the mound. The cedars along its sides were yet unburnt! I thought that the flames had consumed them, but no. The object of their fires had been to blind us with their smoke—thus to drive us from our position, and facilitate our capture.

I was not permitted to make these observations without interruption. The savage—who had stood by me had a duty to perform; and during all this time he was busied in its performance. A singular and inexplicable operation it at first appeared to me. His initiatory act was to blacken my body from the waist upward, including my face, throat, and arms. The substance used appeared to be a paste of charcoal, which he rubbed rudely over my skin. A circle upon my breast—that traced out by the blade of the chief—was left clear; but as soon as the black ground had been laid on, a new substance was exhibited, of snow-white colour, resembling chalk or gypsum. With this—after the blood had been carefully dried off—the circular space was thickly coated over, until a white disc, about as large as a dining-plate shewed conspicuously on my breast! A red spot in the centre of this was necessary to complete the escutcheon; but the painter appeared at a loss for the colour, and paused to reflect. Only a moment did he remain at fault. He was an ingenious artist; and his ingenuity soon furnished him with an idea. Drawing his knife, and sticking the point of it some half inch deep into the fleshy part of my thigh, he obtained the required "carmine"; and, after dipping his finger in the blood, and giving it a dab in the centre of the white circle, he stood for a short time contemplating his work. A grim smile announced that he was satisfied with it; and, uttering a final grunt, the swarthy Apelles leaped down from the platform, and disappeared from my sight. A horrid suspicion had already taken possession of my soul; but I was not left long to speculate upon the purpose for which I had been thus bedaubed: the suspicion gave place to certainty.

Upon the plain directly in front of me, and at less than a hundred yards' distance from the butte, the warriors were collecting in groups. The Red-Hand with his under-chiefs had already arrived there; and the other Indians were forsaking the fires, and hurrying up to the spot. They had left their lances apart, standing upright on the plain, with their shields, bows, and quivers leaning against them, or suspended from their shafts. The only weapons taken along with them to the common rendezvous were the muskets. With these they were now occupying themselves—apparently preparing them for use. I saw them mark out a line upon the grass, by stretching a lazo between two upright pegs. I saw them wiping, loading, and priming their pieces—in short, going through all the preliminary manoeuvres, observed by marksmen preparing for a trial of skill. Then burst on me in all its broad reality the dread horror for which I was reserved—then did I comprehend the design of that white circle with its centre of red: the savages were about to hold a shooting-match—my own bosom was to be their target!



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

A PITILESS PASTIME.

Yes—to hold a shooting-match was undoubtedly the design of my captors; and equally clear was it that my breast was to be their mark. This explained my position upon the summit of the mound, as well as my attitude upon the cross. I was bound to the latter, in order that my person might be held erect, spread, and conspicuous. I could not comfort, myself with any doubt as to their intention. Every movement I saw confirmed it; and the question was finally set at rest by Red-Hand possessing himself of one of the loaded muskets, and making ready to fire. Stepping a pace or two in front of the line of his warriors, he raised the piece to his shoulder, and pointed it towards me. It is vain to attempt describing the horror I endured at that moment. Utterly unable to move, I gazed upon the glistening barrel, with its dark tube, that threatened to send forth the leaden messenger of death. I have stood before the pistol of the duellist. It is not a pleasant position to be in, under any conditions of quarrel. Still it is perfect happiness compared with that I then held. In the former case, there are certain circumstances that favour the chances of safety. You know that you are en profile to your antagonist—thus lessening the danger of being hit. Judging by yourself, you feel assured that the aim taken will be quick and unsteady, and the shot a random one. You are conscious of possessing the capability of motion—that whether you may feel inclined to give way to it or not, you still have a certain discretion of avoiding the deadly missile—that by superior skill or quickness, you may anticipate your antagonist and hinder his bullet from being sent. There are other circumstances of a moral nature to sustain you in a trial of this kind—pride, angry passion, the fear of social contempt; and, stronger than all—perhaps most frequent of all—the jealousy of rival love. From none of all these could I derive support, as I stood before the raised musket of the Arapaho. There was no advantage—either moral or physical—in my favour. I was broad front to the danger, without the slightest capacity of "dodging" it; whilst there was nothing to excite the nerves of the marksman, or render his aim unsteady. On the contrary, he was sighting me as coolly, as if about to fire at a piece of painted plank.

It may have been but a minute, that the savage occupied himself in adjusting his aim; but to me it appeared ten. In such a situation, I may have believed the seconds to be minutes: they seemed so. In reality, the time must have been considerable. The drops of sweat that had started from my brow were chasing each other over my cheeks, and trickling down upon my breast. So prolonged was the suspense, I began to fancy that the Arapaho was designedly dallying with his aim, for the purpose of sporting with my fears. He may have had such motive for procrastination. I could have believed it. Distant though he was, I could mark his fiendish smile, as he repeatedly dropped the piece from his shoulder, and then returned it to the level. That he meant more than mere menace, however, was proved in the end. Having satisfied himself with several idle feints, I saw him make demonstration, as if setting himself more determinedly to the work. This time he was certainly in earnest. His cheek lay steadily along the stock—his arms appeared more rigid—his finger was pressing on the trigger—the moment had come!

The flash from the pan—the red stream poured forth from the muzzle—the hist of the bullet, were all simultaneous. The report came afterwards; but, before it had reached my ears, I knew that I was untouched. The lead had already whizzed past, at a distance—as I could judge by the sound—of several feet from my body. I heard a scratching behind me; and the instant after, a swarthy face was thrust before my eyes. It was that of the artist, who had painted me for the part I was playing. I had been under the impression that he had gone down to the plain, but I now perceived my error. He had remained near me, concealing his body behind the rock. I saw that he was now enacting a different role— that of marker for the marksmen. Running his eye over my body, and perceiving that I was nowhere hit, he telegraphed the intelligence to his comrades upon the plain; and then glided back to his covert.

I was relieved from the terrible anxiety; but only for a short moment—a mere interval of about a dozen seconds' duration. The Red-Hand, after firing, had resigned his place; but this was instantly occupied by one of his sub-chiefs, who, armed with another musket, in turn stepped up to the line. Again I saw the gleaming barrel brought to the level, with its dark tube pointed upon my body. This marksman was more expeditious; but for all that, it was to me a time of racking torture. Again did the drops bead out upon my brow, and chase one another down my cheeks. Again had I to undergo all the agony of death itself and, as before, without dying, or even losing a drop of my blood! As before, I beheld the puff of smoke, the flash, the blaze of fire projected from the muzzle: but ere the crack reached me, I heard the "thud" of the bullet, as it flattened against the granite on which I stood. This time the marker did not mount up to the platform. He had seen the splinters shivered from the rock; and without further inquiry, for the second time, telegraphed a miss.

A third candidate appeared upon the stand; and my fears returned—as acute as ever. This fellow caused me to suffer nearly a dozen deaths. Either was his gun without a flint, or his powder damp: since after snapping nearly a dozen times, the piece still refused to go off. Had it been designed to give me a new horror, the thing could not have been better planned: for each time that the savage essayed to fire, I had to undergo the agony of a fresh apprehension. The scene ended by another gun being placed in his hands, that did go off; but with no advantage to the clumsy marksman: for his bullet, like that of the Red-Hand, whistled past, far wide of the mark.

A fourth now took the ground. This was a tall, swarthy warrior, one of the tallest of the tribe; and without the insignia of a chief. The cool and deliberate manner in which he went about his work, caused me to anticipate in him a better shot; and my apprehensions were heightened to a degree of painful intensity. I felt my whole frame shiver as his gun blazed forth; and for a time I believed myself hit. The cheer of his companions upon the plain announced the belief in the success of the shot; but he upon the summit soon undeceived them—just as I became myself reassured. The bullet had struck the wood-work of my crucifix— one of the crosspieces to which my arms were attached. It was the shock of the timber that had deceived me into the belief that I had been struck.

A fifth marksman followed; and then another and another—until more than a dozen had tried their hands. The guns were now all emptied; but this caused only a temporary cessation in the cruel sport. They were soon reloaded; and new candidates stepped forward to make trial of their skill.

I had by this time discovered that they were not practising for mere sport. It was a game, and bets were laid, upon it. Apart upon the plain, the stakes were placed, consisting of saddles, robes, weapons, and the plunder of the emigrant waggon. Horses also were picketed near—surplus animals—that were betted against one another: whether in many separate wagers, or all forming a grand "pool," I could not determine. My own scalp—I was uncertain whether I still wore it—was no doubt the chief object of the contest. It was the "cup," to be given to him who should place his bullet in that white circle upon my breast, and nearest the red spot in the centre!

The guns being once more reloaded, the firing recommenced, I saw that only one shot was allowed to each; and this only to those who had entered a stake. The condition gave me an opportunity of experiencing my apprehensions in different degrees: since, according to the apparent adroitness or clumsiness of the marksman, my fears of being hit were greater or less. Strange to say, before a dozen shots had been fired, I no longer wished them to miss! The dread ordeal, so oft repeated, was too terrible to be borne. I was sustained by no hope of ultimate escape. I knew that the fiends would continue firing, till some one of them should finish me by a fatal shot; and I cared not how soon it should be sent. Nay, I even desired that it should come quickly. Death was preferable to the agony I was enduring.



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

A HUNDRED DEATHS.

For a full hour was the pitiless pastime continued—during which at least fifty shots had been fired at my person. The truculent chieftain had threatened me with a hundred deaths. He was fulfilling his threat to the letter; for, notwithstanding the unskilful practice, I felt, on the eve of each discharge, a certain creeping of the flesh, and curdling of the blood, as if that moment was to be my last. If I had not yet died a hundred times, for at least so many had I felt all the sensations that should precede actual death. In truth over a hundred times: for although but fifty shots had been fired, twice as often had the old guns snapped or flashed in the pan; and each of these was preceded by its especial pang. I had not escaped altogether unscathed: I had been hit in two or three places—in my arms and limbs. Blood was running down my legs, and creeping over my feet. I could feel it warm and wet, as it trickled between my toes. In a little hollow of the rock, directly in front of me, a crimson pool was collecting. The wounds could not be severe: since I scarcely felt them. Perhaps only the crease of a bullet? A scratch would be sufficient to cause the effusion of the blood—copious though it appeared to be; and I felt certain that no bone had yet been broken—that no vital part of my body had been touched.

After about an hour had been spent by the savages in their fiendish sport, the firing became suddenly suspended. I could not tell why; and sought for an explanation by watching the movements of the marksmen. Had they exhausted their ammunition? This was the idea that came uppermost. The chiefs had turned face to face, and were again engaged in some earnest deliberation. The subject of their talk was made known by their gesticulations. They were pointing towards Sure-shot, who still lay, as I have described, flat upon his face.

Wingrove was no longer there; nor yet Su-wa-nee! Where could they have gone? I had seen both but the moment before! Had she unbound, and rescued him? Was it about them that the savages were in consultation? No; the result proved not. It was the deserter who was the object of their attention—as was soon made manifest by their movements.

Half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up to the spot where Sure-shot lay. Stooping around him, they undid his fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging him towards the crowd of marksmen. The terrified man made no resistance. It would have been idle. There was a brawny savage on each side, grasping him by the wrist; and three or four behind pushing him forward at a run. His long hair streaming loosely, strengthened the expression of despair that was depicted upon his countenance. No doubt he deemed it his last hour. Whether could they be dragging him? Whither but to death? This was my own belief—at first; but in a few minutes I had reason to change it. For a short while, Sure-shot was encircled by the dusky forms, and I saw him not—or only the crown of his head—conspicuous by its yellow hue among the darker chevelures of the Indians. What were they doing to him? I could not guess; but they appeared to be offering him no further violence. After a time, the group scattered from around him, and the ex-rifleman was again uncovered to my view. With some surprise, I perceived that the expression of his countenance had undergone a total change. It was no longer that of terror—much less of despair. On the contrary, there was a certain air of confidence visible both in his look and manner—as if something had been said, or done to him, that had given him satisfaction! I was further surprised at perceiving that he had a gun in his hands—his own rifle—and that he was in the act of loading the piece! My surprise changed to indignation as I saw him step forward to the line, and stand facing me—evidently with the intention to fire! "Cowardly traitor! he has accepted life upon some base condition. Jeph Bigelow! Sure-shot! whom I thought true as steel! I would not have believed it." Such was the reflection, to which my gag prevented me from giving utterance. In reality, I felt astonished at the behaviour of the old ranger. I believed him a better man; but the dread of death is a powerful test to apply to the human soul; and hard must be the conditions of life when, under such circumstances, they are refused. Sure-shot had succumbed to the temptation.

Such was my belief, as I saw him raise his piece, and stand confronting me—in an attitude that too plainly bespoke his intention. Another surprise awaited me—another stimulus to my indignation. Instead of looking ashamed of his work, and cowering under my glance, he appeared eager and determined to execute the dastardly design. There was even an expression of fierceness, ill becoming his countenance habitually meek. Under other circumstances, it would have been ludicrous enough. "Bravado," thought I, "assumed, no doubt, to give satisfaction to his new allies?"

I had not recovered from the confusion of my surprise, when his voice fell upon my ear—uttered in a tone of anger, and accompanied with corresponding gestures. But the words that reached me explained all. On hearing them, I no longer suspected the loyalty of my old comrade. The angry expression was assumed; but the counterfeit had a design, far different from that which I had attributed to it. It was Sure-shot himself—still tricky as true.

"Capting!" cried he, speaking quickly, and raising his gun with a gesture of menace, "pay 'tention to whet I'm 'beout to say. Look savagerous at me, an' make these yeer verming b'lieve you an' me's que'lling. Fo'most tell me, ef they've krippled ye 'beout the legs? I know ye can't speak; but shet yeer eyes, an' thet says 'No.'"

I was for the moment puzzled, by the matter as well as manner of his speech, which in no way corresponded. In an instant, however, I perceived that he had some design; and I hastened to obey his hurried instructions. As to the first, I needed to make no alteration in my demeanour. Under the belief that he was disloyal, I had been regarding him with a glance sufficiently scowling. I preserved the expression—at the same time closing my eyes, as a negative answer to his query. Although I believed myself to be hit somewhere about the legs, I felt confident that I was not "crippled."

"So fur good!" continued he, still speaking loudly and angrily. "Neow! slew yeer right elbow down a leetle, an' gi' me a better chance at thet eer strip o' hide. I kinder guess as heow I kin cut the thing. It 'peers to be all o' one piece, an' 'll peel off yeer body like a rope o' rushes. Ef I cut it, theer'll be a chance for ye. Theer's only one o' the verming ahint the mound. Yeer hoss air theer; make for the anymal— mount 'im, an' put off like a streak o' greased lightnin'! Neow!"

As he finished speaking, he stepped nearer to the line, and placed himself in an attitude to fire. I now fully comprehended his design. I saw, as he said, that the cord which bound me to the crucifix was all of one piece—a thin thong of raw-hide—lapped not very tightly around my arms, legs, and body. If cut through at any point, it could easily be detached; and, true enough, my horse must be behind the butte, for I could not see him in front. By a quick rush I might succeed in reaching him, before the Indians could intercept me? If so, then indeed might there be a chance of escaping.



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

A SHARP SHOT.

Slender as appeared the prospect of my being freed from my fastenings, by the method proposed, I was not without some faith in Sure-shot being able to cut the thong. His skill in the use of the rifle was notorious even among good marksmen—and his aim believed to be unerring. I had known him to bring down with his bullet a bird upon the wing; and had heard him declare that it was not by the eye but by the mind that he did it. In other words: he meant, that his skill was not mechanical; but that he was guided in the act by some mental operation—which he himself but imperfectly understood. I could believe this the more readily—since Sure-shot was not the only marksman I had known possessed of this peculiar power. A something inexplicable, which may be classed with the mysterious phenomena of clairvoyance and "horse-whispering."

With such belief in his skill, therefore, I was not without some hope that he might succeed in his design; and, to give him the chance he desired, I made a violent effort, and wrenched my arm downward. It was, to all appearance, a demonstration of my wrath, at what the pseudo-renegade had been saying to me; and it seemed to be thus interpreted by most of the savages who stood around him. The words of Sure-shot, spoken in English, were of course unintelligible to them; but, notwithstanding the inappropriate gestures which he had made use of, the suspicions of one were aroused. This was Red-Hand himself.

"What says he of the yellow scalp-lock to the captive?" inquired the chief in Spanish. "Let him take heed, or he too shall become a shooting-mark for the Arapaho warriors!"

Sure-shot's reply was characteristic. It was also in broken Spanish, which the ranger had picked up during our campaign, on the Rio Grande. Translated, it ran thus: "I'm only telling him how I'm about to get square with him. Carrambo! great chief! when I was a soldier in the army, yon fellow was my capitano, and gave me a flogging. Believe me, chief, I'm right glad of this opportunity to have revenge on him. That's what I have been saying to him."

"Ugh!" grunted the savage, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

"Neow, capting!" angrily shouted the rifleman, once more raising his piece to the level, "look e' out! Don't be skeert abeout my hittin' o' ye! The whang lies well ageen the bit o' timber. The ball's a big un. I recking I kin bark it anyheow. Heer's to try!"

A tall yellow-haired man standing with a rifle to his shoulder—his sallow cheek resting against the stock—the barrel apparently aligned upon my body—the quick detonation of a percussion-cap—a stream of red fire and smoke from the muzzle—a shock, followed by the quivering of the timbers to which I was tied, were perceptions and sensations of almost simultaneous occurrence. Twisting my head, and turning my eyes almost out of their sockets, I was able to note the effect of the shot. The thong had been hit, just at the point where it doubled over the edge of the wood. It was cut more than half through! By raising my elbow to its original position, and using it as a lever, I could tear apart the crushed fibres. I saw this; but in the anticipation of a visit from the marker, I prudently preserved my attitude of immobility. In a moment after, the grinning savage came gliding in front of me; and, perceiving the track of the bullet, pointed it out to those upon the plain. I was in a feverish state of suspense lest he might suspect design; but was relieved on seeing him step aside—while the shuffling grating noise from behind admonished me, that he was once more letting himself down over the edge of the platform.

The crowd had already closed around Sure-shot, who appeared to be expostulating with the chief—as if offering some explanation of his failure. I did not wait to witness the denouement. Raising my elbow, and giving my arm a quick jerk, I heard the thong snapping asunder; and saw the broken ends spring out from their folds. Another wrench set my right arm free; and then, clutching the loosened coils, I unwound them with as much rapidity, as if I had been freeing myself from the embrace of a serpent! Not one of the Indians saw what I was about, till after I had undone my fastenings. Their eyes had been turned upon Sure-shot— with whom they appeared to be engaged in some angry altercation. It was only after I had sprung to one side, and stood clear of the crucifix, that I heard their ejaculations of astonishment, followed by a wild continuous yelling.

I stayed not to note what they were doing. I merely glanced towards them, as I turned away; and perceived that they were still fixed to their places, as if petrified by surprise! The moments were precious; and, bounding across the platform, I leaped down upon the opposite side.

There was a little shelf about six feet below the summit. I found it occupied by the indigenous artist. He was seated upon the edge, with his legs hanging over. His back was towards me; and he was only apprised of what had transpired by seeing me as I sprang to his side. He had already heard the yells from the other side; and was about to get to his feet, at the moment I dropped down behind him. He was too late for the accomplishment of his purpose. I saw that he was unarmed; but was apprehensive that by flinging himself upon me, he might hold or delay me. I hesitated not as to what I should do. Bushing forward, I planted my foot against his shoulder, and giving his body a violent impulsion, projected it clear over the edge. I saw it striking upon the angular prisms, and bounding from block to block—till it sunk out of sight amidst the tortuous branches of the cedars. I ran down the sloping path—taking many yards at a step.

Not far off, was my horse—with that of Wingrove, and the mules. They formed a little group—but no longer under charge of a guard: for the latter had just left them, and was running forward to intercept me. I saw that he had a weapon in his hand. It was a gun. He was pointing it upon me as he ran—endeavouring to take aim before firing. I heeded not the threatening attitude, but rushed straight towards him. I could not go round him: since he was between me and the horses. We both ran, as if to meet one another. When less than five paces separated us, the Indian stopped, sighted me and pulled trigger. His gun snapped! Before he could lower the piece, I had clutched the barrel: and, with a desperate effort, wrenched the weapon from his grasp. I made a feint to strike him over the head. He threw up his arms to ward off the blow. Instead of using the gun as a club, I thrust him with the butt right under the ribs; and stretched him gasping upon the grass. He fell, as if shot through the head! Still holding on to the gun—which, by a strange accident, proved to be my own rifle—I ran up to my horse. The creature welcomed me with a neigh of joy! It was but the work of a moment to draw the picket-pin, gather up the laryette, and spring to his back. Once there, I felt that I was free!

The Indians came screaming around the butte—most of them afoot, and with no other weapons than the empty muskets. A few, more prudent than their fellows, had made towards their arms and horses; but, both being at a distance, they had not yet reached them; and the advantage was mine. I was no longer hurried in my actions—not even afraid. I had no apprehension of being retaken. On the back of my brave steed, I felt like an ocean cast-away, who has climbed up the sides of a strong ship, and once more stands safely upon deck! I felt confident that from my pursuers, I could gallop away at will; and, after taking time to adjust my laryette as a halter, I gave the head to my horse, and rode off. My Arab needed no urging. Up the valley went he, like a bird upon the wing. I could laugh to scorn the savage pack that came hallooing behind me.



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

THE CHASE AND THE SYNCOPE.

I made direct for the canon whence issued the stream. Its gap grew wider as I approached it—though still appearing only a dark cleft between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. I looked forward to it with satisfaction. Its shadowy chasm promised shelter and concealment. When near the entrance of the gorge, I passed the ground where the waggon had been captured. Part of its load— barrels and heavy boxes—were lying upon the sward. They were all broken, and rifled of their contents. The plunder had been carried to the butte. The dead bodies were still there—only those of the white men. I even halted to examine them. They were all stripped of their clothing—all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. The faces of all were blood-bedaubed. Under the red mask I could not have recognised them— even had they been the faces of old friends! There were six of them. Divested of their garments, I could form no conjecture as to who or what they had been—whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers. The Mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, Holt. I turned away from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop.

My pursuers were a good mile behind me. The sun had already sunk over the crest of the cliffs, and I could just see the mounted savages through the darkling gloom—still fallowing as fast as their horses could gallop. In five minutes after, I had entered the gorge. The twilight continued no longer: in the canon it was night. I followed the stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. Thick darkness was over and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served to guide me on the path. I could not see any track—either of horses or waggons—but I knew they had passed over the ground. There was a narrow strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. I trusted the trail to my horse. In addition to his keen instinct, he had been trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and downward—so that his lips almost touched the earth—he lifted the scent like a hound. We could only make progress at a quick walk; but I consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster. Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit—returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives.

About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no doubt of his having done so. He had been offered life, on some traitorous condition, and could have lived. The Indian whom I had hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. The cunning savages would easily understand it. My brave comrade would take my place upon the crucifix?

For Wingrove I had less fear. Surely love—even slighted love—would save him from the sacrifice? Yet, after what had occurred, I had but little reason to hope even for him. I could think of but one chance of rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to return. I wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! I could only explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. The six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have been heard? The roar of the water in the canon might have drowned the reports of their guns; and, as I now listened to its deafening sound, I could believe in this hypothesis.

Indulging in such conjectures, I had groped my way some two or three miles up the gorge, when I became sensible of a singular faintness stealing over me. A chill crept through my frame—not like that produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my veins! The feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude— like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. I made an effort to rouse myself—thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me. It might well have been—since it was more than thirty hours since I had slept, and then only for a short while. It occurred to me that, by dismounting and walking for a distance, I might recover warmth and wakefulness. With this design, I alighted from my horse. Once upon the ground, I discovered that I could not walk—that I could not even keep my feet! My limbs tottered under me, as if I had been for months bed-rid. Only by holding on to my horse could I stand erect! What could it mean? My Arab turned his face towards me, as if making the same inquiry! I endeavoured to remount him, but could not. I was unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort, desisted—still supporting myself against his body. Had he moved away, at the moment, I should have fallen. And I must have fallen—after my senses left me. In the last gleam of consciousness, I remembered standing by the side of my horse. But I must have fallen: for when thought returned, I found myself upon my back, stretched at full length along the grass!



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

PASSED BY THE PURSUIT.

I must have fallen upon my back, or else turned upon it after falling. On opening my eyes, the sky was the first object that my glance encountered. I saw only a strip of it, of dark-blue colour, bordered on each side by black. I knew it was the sky by its twinkling stars; and that the black borderings were the cliffs of the canon. By this I remembered where I was, and the stars and darkness admonished me it was still night. There was hot air upon my face—as if some one was behind breathing down upon me. I turned my head, and looked upward. A pair of brilliant eyes were glancing into mine. So confused were my senses, that it was some time before I made them out to be the eyes of my Arab. He was standing over me, with his muzzle close to my forehead. It was his breath I had felt upon my face. I could not tell how long I had been entranced. I had no clue to the time of night, and I was not in a position to consult the stars. I must have lain several hours, partly in syncope, and partly asleep. It was fortunate I had a buffalo-robe around my body. I had found it lying upon the plain among the dead men; and had snatched it up, and tied it around my shoulders as I rode on. But for it, I might have perished in my slumber: since the night was chill, and I had neither covering on my back, nor blood in my veins, to resist the cold. It was the absence of the latter that had brought me to the ground. I had left most of my blood upon the butte.

Sleep or time had revived me. I was able to get to my feet; and I arose. I was still weak, and staggered like a lamb; but my senses were sufficiently clear; and I now recollected everything that had transpired. I was also conscious of the danger of remaining in that place; and it was this thought that induced me to get up—with the intention of going forward.

I was strong enough to mount, and just strong enough to keep the seat upon my horse; but I was aware of the necessity of putting a wider distance between myself and the Red-Hand before daylight should arrive; and I continued onward up the ravine. The trace was easily followed— more easily than when I first entered the canon. There was more light; and this must have been caused by a moon. I could see none—the cliffs hindered me—but the strip of sky visible above the rocks showed the sheen of moonlight.

I rode but slowly. Feeble though I was, I could have ridden faster, but I was proceeding with caution. Strange as it may seem, I was now paying more regard to the front than the rear. I had a suspicion that my pursuers might be ahead of me. I could hardly believe in their having abandoned the pursuit, after so slight an effort. Too many of them had fallen by my hand. They would scarce let me escape so easily, and with my scalp untaken: I had ascertained that the trophy was still upon my head. It was quite possible they had passed me. While endeavouring to mount my horse, I had drawn him from the path; and the place where I had found myself lying was behind some bushes, where I should have been screened from the eyes of any one riding along the track. In daylight I might have been seen; but not then. At that hour the darkness would have concealed me. And it had concealed me, as I soon after discovered. My suspicion that the pursuers had passed me proved the means of saving me. But for the caution it had prompted me to observe, I should have ridden head to head against their horses! I had proceeded about a mile further, and was still advancing when my steed raised his head horizontally, and gave utterance to a low snort. At the same instant, he stopped without any tightening of the rein! Above the sough of the stream, I heard noises. The intonation of the red man's voice was easily recognised. There were Indians in front of me! Were they coming or going? The voices grew louder as I listened—the speakers were nearing me.

My first thought was to glide behind the trees; but a glance showed me that these were not tall enough. They were mere bushes. They might have concealed the body of a man; but a horse standing up could not have been hidden behind them. For a moment I was undecided as to how I should act—till I bethought me of turning, and riding back to where I had lain. I was in the act of facing about, when through the sombre light I observed a break in the cliff. It appeared to be a gap—the entrance of a lateral ravine. It offered a chance of concealment: since it was even darker than within the canon itself. I hesitated not about accepting the shelter it promised; and, heading my horse into it, I rode rapidly but silently forward.

When fairly concealed under its shadowy gloom, I again halted and listened. I heard the hoof-strokes of horses and the voices of men. I recognised the deep guttural of the Arapahoes. A troop was riding past, going back towards the valley. They were those who had pursued me. Were these all of my pursuers. There appeared to be only a small party—ten or a dozen horsemen. Others might have gone up the river, who had not yet returned. It was this doubt that caused me to hesitate; otherwise I should have ridden back into the canon, and kept on up the stream. But by doing so I might place myself between two parties of my pursuers, with no chance of retreating in either direction. Moreover, pickets might have been stationed along the path. To fall upon one of these would be fatal. Why not follow the lateral ravine? I might ride up that for a distance, and then leaving it, cross over to the caravan trace—above any point to which the pursuit might have been carried?

This plan appeared feasible; and, without delay, I adopted it. I rode on up the gorge, which very much resembled that I had left—only that there was no water in it. It had not been always so: for my path here and there ran over a channel of rocks, which indicated the bed of a stream, now dry. I followed the ravine for a mile or more; and then looked for a path that would take me across to the caravan trail. I looked in vain. Stupendous cliffs rose on each side. I could not scale them. I had no choice but to keep on up the ravine; but that would be going at right angles to my proper course!

There was no alternative but to halt and wait for daylight. Indeed, I was too faint to ride further. Slight exertion fatigued me; and, no longer in dread of immediate danger I deemed it more prudent to stop, and, if possible, gain strength by rest. I dismounted, gave my horse to the grass; and, having wrapped myself in the warm robe, soon entered upon the enjoyment of sleep—sweeter and more natural than the involuntary slumber in which I had been lately indulging.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE TRACK OF THE MOCASSIN.

The blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when I awoke. On the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be stirring. I had no toilet to make—no breakfast to eat: nothing to do but mount my horse and move onward. I continued up the lateral ravine— since there was no path leading out from it; and to return to the Huerfano, would have been to ride back into the teeth of danger. I still felt faint. Though less than twenty-four hours since I had eaten, I hungered acutely. Was there nothing I could eat? I looked inquiringly around. It was a scene of sterility and starvation. Not a symptom of life—scarcely a sign of vegetation! Rocks, bare and forbidding, formed two parallel facades grinning at each other across the gorge—their rugged features but little relieved by the mottling of dark junipers that clung from their clefts. There appeared neither root nor fruit that might be eaten. Only a chameleon could maintain existence in such a spot!

I had scarcely made this reflection, when, as if to contradict it, the form of a noble animal became outlined before my eyes. Its colour, size, and proportions, were those of a stag of the red deer species; but its spiral horns proclaimed it of a different genus. These enabled me to identify it as the rare mountain-ram—the magnificent ammon, of the Northern Andes. It was standing upon a salient point of the cliff—its form boldly projected against the purple sky, in an attitude fixed and statuesque. One might have fancied it placed there for embellishment—a characteristic feature of that wild landscape. The scene would have been incomplete without it. From my point of observation it was five hundred yards distant. It would have been equally safe at five: since I had no means of destroying it. I might easily have crept within shot-range—since a grove of cotton-woods, just commencing where I had halted, extended up the bottom of the ravine. Under these I could have stalked, to the base of the cliff on which the animal stood—a sort of angular promontory projecting into the gorge. This advantage only rendered the sight more tantalising: my gun was empty, and I had no means of reloading it. Was it certain the piece was empty? Why should the Indian have believed it to be loaded? Up to this moment, I had not thought of examining it. I drew the ramrod, and inverted it into the barrel. The head struck upon a soft substance. The screw stood four fingers above the muzzle: the gun was charged! There was no cap upon the nipple. There had been none! This accounted for the piece having missed fire. In all likelihood, I owed my life to the circumstance of the savage being ignorant of the percussion principle!

I was now indebted to another circumstance for a supply of caps. The locker near the heel of the stock had escaped the attention of the Indians. Its brass cover had passed for a thing of ornament. On springing it open the little caps of corrugated copper gleamed before my eyes—an abundance of them. I tapped the powder into the nipple; adjusted a cap; and, dismounting, set forth upon the stalk. The spreading tops of the cotton-woods concealed me; and, crouching under them, I made my approaches as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. It grew damper as I advanced; and, presently, I passed pools of water and patches of smooth mud—where water had recently lain. It was the bed of an intermittent stream—a hydrographic phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the central regions of North America. The presence of water accounted for that of the cotton-wood trees—a sure indication of moisture in the soil.

The water was a welcome sight. I was suffering from thirst even more than from hunger; and, notwithstanding the risk of losing my chance of a shot, I determined to stop and drink. I was creeping forward to the edge of one of the ponds, when a sight came under my eyes that astonished me; and to such a degree, as to drive both thirst and hunger out of my thoughts—at least for the moment. In the margin of sandy mud extending along the edge of the water, appeared a line of tracks—the tracks of human feet! On crawling nearer, I perceived that they were mocassin-tracks, but of such tiny dimensions, as to leave no doubt as to the sex of the individual who had made them. Clearly, they were the imprints of a woman's feet! A woman must have passed that way! An Indian woman of course!

This was my first reflection; and almost simultaneous with it arose another half-interrogative conjecture: was it Su-wa-nee? No. The foot was too small for that of the forest maiden. I had a remembrance of the dimensions of hers. The tracks before my eyes were not over eight inches in length: and could only have been made by a foot slender, and of elegant shape. The imprint was perfect; and its clear outline denoted the light elastic tread of youth. It was a young woman who had made those footmarks.

At first, I saw no reason to doubt that the tracks were those of some Indian girl. Their size would not have contradicted the supposition. Among the aboriginal belles of America, a little foot is the rule—a large one the exception. I had tracked many a pair much smaller than those; but never had I seen the footprints of an Indian with the toes turned out; and such was the peculiarity of those now before me. This observation—which I did not make till after some time had elapsed— filled me with astonishment, and something more. It was suggestive of many and varied emotions. The girl or woman who had made these tracks could never have been strapped to an Indian cradle. She must be white!



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

A RIVAL STALKER.

It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of a squaw—all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were very recent—of less than an hour's age. As I rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand—the footmarks of a wolf! No—I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These were also fresh like the woman's tracks—made doubtless at the same time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost.

There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: a white woman in such a place, and wearing moccasins! But for the style of the chaussure, I might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have connected them with her—ever uppermost in my thoughts. But—no. Small though they were, they were yet too large for those mignon feet, well-remembered. After all, I might be mistaken? Some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race.

My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge!

When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the ovis ammon in descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body?

I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun—that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs—told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot? If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game. Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, a free trapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men.

From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears—"Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don't you see that the creature is killed—no thanks to you, sirrah?" Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman!

While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes—a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown—cheeks of purplish red—a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve—eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope—a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes—such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view—equally striking and picturesque. I need not say that it was of perfect shape—bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself—hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.

The costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. About both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself—for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of Pike's Peak rising over the crest of the cliff, I might have fancied myself in the Sierra Asturias, with a beautiful gitana standing before me. The soft fawn-skin tilma, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills—the fringed skirt and buskined ankles—the striped Navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders— all presented a true gipsy appearance. The plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of Transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of America. It was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! It was not a hunter then who had killed the game; but she who stood before me—a huntress—the Wild Huntress.



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

THE WILD HUNTRESS.

No longer was it from fear that I held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. The sight of so much beauty— grand as unexpected—was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place—and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger. Su-wa-nee's I had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. I hesitated to show myself—lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. The thought was not unnatural—since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and I must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. In such a guise I knew that I must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but I dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest I might never look upon it again! In my absence, she would be gone? I feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and I was too faint to follow her. For this reason, I stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. I almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. I was planning, at the same time, how I should initiate an interview.

Her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. She had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. Her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carcass with open mouth, as if eager to devour it.

"Off, off!" cried she, threatening the dog with the butt of her rifle. "You wicked Wolf! what has got into you? Have I not told you that the thing is dead—what more do you want? Mind, sirrah!" continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog—"mind, my good fellow! you had no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. You hear me? Not a morsel!"

Wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. Impelled by hunger, I accepted the cue:

"You will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?"

"Aha! who speaks?" cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. "Down, Wolf!" commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. "Down, you savage brute! Don't you hear that some one is starving? Ha! a negro! Poor devil! where can he have come from, I wonder?"

Only my head was visible—a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her.

"No, not a negro," said I, stepping out and discovering my person—"not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one."

"Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! Ha, ha, ha!"

"My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it—since I can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than—"

"You are a white man, then?" said she, interrupting me—at the same time stepping nearer to examine me.

"I was, yesterday," I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. "To-day, I am as you see."

"O heavens!" she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, "this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?"

"In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them."

"Who gave you these wounds?"

"Indians. I have just escaped from them."

"Indians! What Indians?"

"Arapahoes."

"Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?"

The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement.

"On the Huerfano," I replied—"by the Orphan butte. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand."

"Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?"

The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment—without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener—who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner:

"Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!" After a pause she hastily inquired: "How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?"

"Nearly two hundred."

"Not more than two hundred?"

"No—rather less, I should say."

"It is well—You say you have a horse?"

"My horse is at hand."

"Bring him up, then, and come along with me!"

"But my comrades? I must follow the train, that I may be able to return and rescue them?"

"You need not, for such a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that—better than the escort you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan passed yesterday?"