Front matter (continued 2)

After the water had been drank and a brief conversation followed, the scout stretched himself out for slumber, her last words being:

"I will watch until the pale chief sleeps soundly. Then I will go to my wigwam, for I must not be missed from there. Should he wake he must drink of this (pointing to a muckuc of birch bark) and when she comes again all pain will have left him and he will be fit to take the trail."

"Wal Cloud, yer ther dearest and best Medicine I ever knew. Good-night."

She sat motionless for a long time, watching his face as intently as a fond mother might have done a child. Then his heavy and regular breathing convinced her that he was asleep. But she must be certain beyond the shadow of a doubt before she could give way to the promptings of her heart, and lighting a little strip of inflammable bark she held it close to his eyes. No flinching of muscles or winking of lids betray consciousness, and bending over him she breathed in the softest of whispers as her lips touched his:

"Ne-ne-moosha, sweetheart, how much I love you!"

"And so do I you, Cloud!" replied the scout, who had been watching her—"playin' 'possum," as he would have said—as he sprung up suddenly and clasped her in his arms and returned her caresses with usurious interest.

She tried to escape, but could not, had been fairly caught, and yielded gracefully while the hunter continued in his rough but honest and warm, great-hearted way to tell her of his affection.

"I knew I kinder liked yer," he said, as he twined his arm around and drew her close to his side, "ther very fust time I ever sot my eyes on yer, but I didn't know how much ontil I heard yer talkin' erbout ther young brave. Then it all come ter me in er minit. Howsomever, it am all right now, and jest as soon as I kin git out of this ar' infernal scrape we'll travel to whar we kin build er wigwam and live in peace."

"The pale-face is a great chief, brave and handsome," she replied, looking into his face with bashful confusion, though making no effort to conceal either her great admiration or love.

"Wal, I don't know erbout ther handsome part," he replied with a laugh, "but I do know you have become very dear ter me. And do yer love me so much?"

"He has become the Manitou of her heart."

"That's lovin' most mighty well, Cloud. Give me ernuther kiss. I hain't had er single one before since my poor mother kissed me, and that's many er long year ergo."

"If any thing should happen to him she would die," she replied, with tears gathering in her eyes as she reluctantly tore herself away and prepared for departure.

But yet she lingered for a long time. She, both of them were learning for the first time what bliss there was in loving, and it was not until after the squaw had soothed her white lover into real slumber that she turned her reluctant feet home. But once having started her speed almost rivaled that of a deer.

Yet broken would have been her slumbers and her dreams far other than the heaven of lovers, could she have been aware that the moment after she had started, a dark, painted form crept out from the concealment of the bushes, where every word must have been audible to him, and took her place by the side of the sleeper.

It was the young brave who had sought to gain her love!

But his face told of another and far more deadly passion now, and more than once his knife was raised to find a bloody sheath. Yet he refrained from striking. His subtly-working brain was devising a far more terrible vengeance—one that would strike terror into the heart of the Burning Cloud as well. And yet the leaving of a scalp so easily to be obtained, and one that would bring him so much of renown, was hard for his nature—the most severe trial of his life thus far.

But might it not be that he could force the squaw to become his wife—or at least bribe her to do so—the bribe being her lover's life?

It was as he conceived a brilliant idea, and drawing back without staining his soul or his hands with murder, he left the sleeper to his rest, and followed the girl to the wigwam—saw her—related what he had seen, and attempted to carry out his plans.

But she laughed at him and his threats, and when he told the story to the warriors, dared him to the proof.

"The morning will decide," he said, sullenly.

And decide it did. The warriors and the spy and the girl went to the spot he designated, and found nothing of any such place of concealment as he had described, but a torrent foaming through the rocky gorge that bore no impress of ever having been in another place since creation!

CHAPTER X.

THE TORTURES OF THE MEDICINE.

With the white Medicine completely in his power and at his mercy, the red one determined to make him reveal every secret charm and mystery—every trick of juggling that he could possibly turn to account to extend his influence over the tribe.

To do this he must be certain that no one should be any the wiser—that there was no spy upon his movements, and so he gave public notice that the Manitou would be very angry with any one who even visited the vicinity where he was confined.

In this respect at least he was obeyed, for there was no longer any interest taken in his fate, and the more especially as they believed the scout was dead, and the white girl had stolen away, and most likely perished in the wilderness.

With matters thus arranged it was easy for him to carry out his purposes without danger of molestation, and he secretly took his departure for the cavern, removed a sufficiency of the wall to enable him to creep through, replaced it again to baffle any curious eyes, and lighting a taper (formed of wax and bear's grease) took his place by the fettered and helpless prisoner, and began tormenting him, though at first by words.

"How does the pale-faced dog like the prison-house of the red-man?" he questioned, in a sneering voice.

"It is a good place to die as any other," replied the physician, somewhat cheered even by his presence, and resolved to show bravery if he did not feel it, and find out, if possible, what had become of his lost love.

"Would he live?"

"Who would not?"

"What would he give for life and freedom?"

"Any thing."

"Then let him tell how he got clear from the many thongs that were knotted around him."

"Remove the stones and I will show you."

"Is the Medicine a fool?"

"It is the only way I can explain, so that you will understand."

"The tongue of the pale-face is used to traveling a crooked trail, but the snows of many winters have fallen upon the head of the Medicine of the Sioux, and brought wisdom," and then, as a further temptation to the revelation, he continued: "Would he not learn of the squaw whose skin is like the blossom of the prairie rose?"

"I would be willing to die, if I could but know that she had escaped from the power of that black-hearted ruffian."

"If I will tell, will you reveal the secrets by which you make yourself great among your people?"

"Yes, any thing that is in my power."

"She fled in the night, and the pale-face can not find her."

"Heaven be thanked!"

"But neither can the red-man, though they have tracked her as the starving wolf does the wounded and blood-dropping deer."

"Then she must be lost in the wilderness."

"Where the wild beasts roam," answered the red-man, with almost fiendish delight.

It was a terrible consummation of the bright dream of love, and yet, any thing was better than to think of her being the reluctant and agonized wife of the remorseless renegade. Even death was a release from never to be told suffering, and through the profound darkness, there is a very faint hope of escape.

"Now," resumed the old trickster, "let the pale-face tell how he untied himself."

"I can not without showing you."

"And how he made the voice that the red-man took for those of a spirit?"

"It is a gift of nature, improved by practice," and he gave an illustration of the peculiar powers of a ventriloquist.

"And how he made my arm like iron?"

"That, also, is a gift—the exercise of a concentrated will," and he related the manner of mesmerism.

But do what he might he could not illuminate the stolid mind of the Indian—could not produce any tangible illustrations, and consequently could not satisfy him, and his face turned still blacker, and became even more hideous with anger, as he thundered, "The pale-face lies! He will make him tell what he wishes to know. Before he has done with him, he will whine like a whipped dog—cry like a sick pappoose, beg like a coward for his life, and be glad to tell every thing that is concealed within his black heart."

Never was a poor wretch more at the mercy of his torturer. Besides the bonds with which he had been fettered, and which cut deeply into the flesh, his limbs were loaded down with heavy stones, so that while they did not actually crush they yet restricted every movement. Then, too, he was already beginning to suffer from the combined effects of hunger and thirst.

"The pale-face handled and swallowed red-hot coals," said the Medicine, savagely. "Let him keep the fire from burning him now if he can!"

Slowly, and by the exercise of more strength than his withered frame would have been thought to possess, the Indian removed the stones from about his feet and kindled a fire there that would scorch, blister, burn deeply and yet be in no danger of taking life. He was experienced in this kind of torture, and knew well how far it could be carried.

An icy sweat burst over the miserable prisoner—great drops stood upon his brow. His agony was frightful. He could have screamed for pain, and forced his tongue between his teeth to prevent his doing so, though he could not keep the smoking flesh from wincing.

"Will the pale-face confess?" asked the diabolical old torturer, as he held a cup of cold water to the parching lips, and then, as they were strained open to swallow, swiftly removed it again.

"I have told you all I can," gasped the suffering man, adding beneath his breath: "Oh! God, have mercy upon me!"

"It is a lie!"

The tortures were renewed—the fire drawn still a little closer, and to make the horror more intense, the swollen, blistered feet were scarified with the point of a sharp knife and the blood and water spurted forth and hissed upon the glowing coals.

"Will the pale-face tell?"

"I can not—can not, more than I have already done."

He felt as if he would instantly expire. Yet his professional knowledge told him such would not be the case—that human nature could endure such suffering, severe though it was, for hours. And as the old fiend bent over him, with looks of hatred and ferocity lighting up his dark features, he registered the most solemn oath that ever was formed within a human soul, that if he should survive and gain his freedom he would rival him in revenge.

But when to the tortures of fire was added the equally terrible one of water falling drop by drop upon his head, he felt that his agony was fast becoming too great for endurance—every fiber of his frame shuddered, and he knew that he was rapidly becoming insane.

Then he would have bartered every particle of knowledge he possessed for a respite from pain, no matter how brief, and did all that was in his power to tell his tormentor what he was so anxious to know. But it was without avail. The fire still raged, and blistered, and burned—the skin was beginning to crumble away, shriveling up like parchment and gaping cracks appearing in the flesh!

Even the Medicine saw that it would not do to carry it further, and kicking aside the brands he drew some ointment from his pouch, dressed the horribly-burned feet, and with the very refinement of cruelty, said:

"To-morrow all the fire will be removed, and the sores begin to heal, for this salve is famous among the red-men. Then I will come and burn again!"

The poor white man fancied, and a prayer of thankfulness went upward from his heart at the thought, that his torture for the time was ended. But it was not so. It was to be continued in a different manner—one equally difficult to bear, though bringing with it little danger.

Tearing the garments from about his body and as far as he could well do from his limbs, the demon in human shape produced a bag of nettles and began rubbing the exposed flesh, leaving such a fierce, fiery, stinging sensation that even more than fire tended to drive the victim mad.

"Ho! ho!" shouted the Medicine, making the cavern echo with his derisive and joyous laughter. "How do you like this? Where are the spirits now that you boasted you could summon at your pleasure? Why do they not come and save you?"

"'Taunt as you may!" replied the prisoner, choking down the great gasps of pain, "but your day will come, and then, God help you!"

"The Manitou of the pale-face is a dog."

There were other and equally bitter tortures floating through the mind of the Medicine, but he was forced to reserve them until another occasion. His pleasure in the suffering of the helpless prisoner was too great to be glutted at once, and so he gave him both food and drink to refresh and sustain him. Besides he believed he would yet accomplish his purpose of extorting the secrets he desired, and would prolong human suffering to any extent to do so.

Again the prisoner was left alone and in the darkness, suffering, almost dying, and even when worn out and he slumbered, his sufferings could only have been equaled by those of the bottomless pit.

CHAPTER XI.

THE RENEGADE.

With the peculiar cunning that belongs to such dastardly-minded men, George Parsons watched for some sign of the beautiful Olive, but without success. He could neither find a token or a trace. That she was hidden somewhere in the neighborhood he did not doubt any more than that she had been spirited away by some of the Indians who were jealous of him. But, failing to ascertain any thing, he resolved upon blinding the eyes of the Indians for a time; so proclaiming his wish to settle among them and become a chief, he boldly began wooing a young squaw for his bride, little thinking that the one whom he had so brutally intended to destroy was keeping an eye upon his movements and silently nursing her revenge.

Yet such was the case. The Burning Cloud had persistently avoided him, or when forced to be seen by him, had been so effectually muffled and disguised that he did not recognize her. In fact he had almost forgotten the episode of their meeting amid the other excitements, and not having seen her was led to believe that she did not belong to that portion of the tribe, and soon gave the matter no further thought.

But she never failed to keep track of all his movements, and as soon as she learned that he was endeavoring to gain the affections of one (who chanced to be a friend and an intimate) of their number, she resolved to ascertain what his intentions really were, for, with a woman's penetration she saw that something was hidden.

First, however, she must take the girl whom he destined to make his wife into her confidence, and obtain from her a pledge of secrecy, as well as to put her upon her guard against a love that could only prove disastrous. This was not difficult. Indian girls love mystery as well as their fairer-skinned sisters, and it was so arranged that the Burning Cloud became an unseen witness of many of their interviews.

The girl played her part well. It was subtle treachery against treachery. She led him on by the arts well known to all women—by a skillful management of sighs and voice and eyes, until he plainly told her of his love, and urged her to consent to immediately become his wife. Then she played the coquette—refused him even a kiss, but, after long pleading, promised to meet him the next evening, when no one could see or hear them, and give him an answer.

The delay chafed, but he was forced to be satisfied, and when the appointed time came, he found the young squaw waiting for him at the trysting, though the spot she had chosen was so dark that he knew not of her presence until she called him by a name given by the tribe—and a very appropriate one it was.

"The eyes of White Wolf are not sharp," she said, with a low laugh at the manner in which he started, "and his heart beats not warm or it would have told him who was near."

"Why, Little Raven," he replied, "it is so dark that I could not see any thing—so dark that I was afraid you would not dare to come."

"What should she fear? Her heart is pure and her trail an open one. She is willing the Great Spirit should see both—should know her every thought."

"Why do you speak so low, and in a changed voice?"

"There is more than one of the braves jealous of White Wolf, and until Little Raven becomes his wife and has found a home in his wigwam, she would not have any one know of their meeting."

"That is well enough. But, come nearer to me. Let me put my arm around you, and give me a kiss."

"Is it thus the white squaws treat their lovers?"

"Certainly."

"The red one keeps her favors for her husband," was the proud response. "He would have the flower before the dew is brushed from it, or not at all."

"That's prudish, Raven. But who is there to see?"

"The stars and the Manitou."

"Pshaw! Your coming to-night tells me that you will be my wife, and why should there any longer be formality between us?"

"Does not the pale-face bring gifts to the wigwam of her he loves?"

"Yes, and you shall have them in plenty after we are married. Then I am going back to my people for a little time, and when I come again you shall have beads and ribbons and every thing you desire."

"Why does he go if he wishes to become a chieftain of the Sioux?"

"To get guns and powder."

"But what will he say when they ask him what has become of the pale squaw who was in his company?" she asked, gently leading him on.

"I don't know; shall have to tell some kind of a story. What do you think has become of her, Little Raven?" and the tone of his voice told her sensitive ear that he was very far from having lost his interest in her.

"The pale-face has hidden her, and will bring her back, when he wills, to his wigwam."

"What, when you are to be my wife?"

"Are the chiefs of the pale-faces so poor that they can not have but one wife? The red warrior has many."

"I hadn't thought of that, but the fact is I don't know where she is, though I have searched far and near, and intend to continue to do so."

"Then you do love her?"

"No; I hate her, and would soon hand her over to the tribe for torture. If you will find her, Raven, I will give you any thing you ask."

"If I should, I would drive a knife through her heart."

"What in the name of heaven would you do that for?" he asked, earnestly, and with far more of feeling than he intended to display.

"So that she could not come between me and the love of White Wolf."

"That would never do. She must not be injured, even in a hair of her head."

She had found out all she desired to know of the state of his heart—knew just as plainly as if he had told her that he still coveted the lovely white girl, and changing the subject, asked:

"Will the pale-face take the Raven, after he has made her his wife, with him when he goes to visit his people?"

"That I couldn't do."

"And he will soon come back?"

"Very soon. I may not be gone over a week."

"Will he tell the warriors of his plans?"

"No, why should he?"

"They are to be his brothers."

"Does each tell the other when he starts upon a hunting-trail or for scalps?"

"When there is any great purpose, yes."

"Well, I don't choose to do so. But, Raven, I want you to keep a sharp look-out for the white girl while I am gone. Will you do so?"

"The eyes and ears of the Little Raven will be open."

"And you need not say what I have gone for to any one. I shall give out that it is to hunt; that will be enough."

"When will White Wolf start?"

"I don't know. When will you marry me?"

"When you come back, ask me."

"Why not answer it now?"

"Because he might never return, and then the girls of the tribe would point their fingers at her and cry out shame!"

"I am certain to come back," and had he finished the sentence as it was in his thoughts it would have been with, "for vengeance upon your cursed race who have robbed me of Olive."

"If so soon, he can wait until then for the Little Raven to fill his wigwam, and he can bring presents to make her gay for her bridal."

That he did not wish the bride to know of his intentions was proof positive to her mind of treachery, and though the conversation drifted into love matters and he protested it in the most ardent fashion, yet she kept him at a distance and would not permit him to enjoy caresses in the slightest degree. But she managed to convince him (though without pledging herself) that she adored him more than all the world—would keep his secrets and be true to him in all respects, and when they separated he believed her heart to be all his own.

There would, however, have been a great revulsion in his feelings if he could have seen how she doubled like a hare upon her trail as soon as his back was turned, and entered the village by another path—how she flung aside her blanket and the face that was revealed was stamped with any thing but tender emotions—was that of the Burning Cloud!

But he met the Little Raven soon afterward, and they had a long and familiar conversation (though without referring to what had already transpired that night), and she managed to deepen still more the impression he had received, and he felt that he was playing the part of a scoundrel. But, the heart of woman was nothing more than a straw, and he cared as little about breaking it.

With all his arrangements perfected, he took his rifle upon the following morning and started out as if for a brief hunt, passing the Little Raven, pausing and bidding her a kind farewell. But he also passed another who knew far more, and whom he did not see.

Burning Cloud was peeping at him through the curtains of her wigwam, and as soon as he had disappeared turned to her brother—a young warrior of very noble face and figure, and whispered:

"Follow him as the wolf follows the wounded buffalo, as the eagle does the dove—the panther the young doe. Be ever near him and yet never in sight. Hear every word that issues from his lips but let yours be dumb as death. Be secret as the mole and crafty as the spider. Let your footsteps be as light as the falling snowflake, and your ear as sharp as the stag. Let nothing escape you. More than you dream of hangs upon what you may learn—perhaps even the fate of the whole tribe. If he turns back, bring me the news before he can get half the way. Let nothing stop you, fire or tempest, heat or cold, sunshine or rain, hunger, thirst, sleep, rest, thunder or lightning. But should he not come back," and her eyes flashed still more vividly and her frame trembled with wild excitement, "should he attempt to fly like a loon-hearted coward, this!" and she handed him a long knife that had been ground to razor-like sharpness, "and bring back his scalp or come not at all."

"My ears are like the soft earth in the springtime to receive, and like it when frozen in the winter to retain," he said, and slowly disappeared from the village, as active, crafty and well-prepared a spy as ever followed trail for knowledge or for blood!

For two days and two nights he tracked the white man. Then the trail of the emigrants was reached, and he easily divined that the object of the renegade was to intercept some passing train, and fortune favored him. He saw one toiling along in the distance, knew where it would camp, reached the spot ahead of them, and when Parsons came up was hidden so as to watch all that happened—watch and listen.

Free tongue was given to the conversation, and the spy heard it all. Then, and without waiting for the light, he turned homeward, and scarcely a deer could have traveled more swiftly—traveled without the slightest pause for rest—burst, travel-stained, into the wigwam of his sister even while she was sleeping, and the single word he uttered was the condensation of all he had to tell. It was:

"Naudoway—see!"

CHAPTER XII.

IN THE FOREST.

The sudden fainting and falling of the wretched night-wandering Olive saved her life.

The panther had been startled by her shrill screams, miscalculated the distance, leaped over her and was instantly engaged in deadly warfare with another of its kind, that had also come upon the same errand—was stealing along like a grim ghost through the bushes, and was hurled to the earth by the one that leaped from the tree.

But the poor girl fortunately knew nothing of the savage duel—heard nothing of the snarling, tearing, ripping—the snapping of jaws—the rending of claws—the terrible howls. All that was spared her, and when she awoke to something of consciousness she crawled in an opposite direction, though wondering very much as she paused to rest in the sunshine, that streamed through the tree-tops, how her dress should have become so spotted with blood—which she believed came from human veins.

Refreshing herself from a cool spring that trickled out from the mossy interstices of a rock, she endeavored to think of what it was best to do. Of her exact locality she had no conception, but after an hour of reflection she believed she knew the course to the valley, where her lover had been walled in, and following the dictation of her heart, womanlike, rather than her reason, she determined upon the desperate task of finding and releasing him.

But how difficult the undertaking she was soon convinced—difficult and dangerous. More than once she fled in alarm from a rustling in the bushes—once she stood almost face to face with a great, gaunt timber-wolf—once she trod upon a shining, scaly serpent, whose horrid hissings rung in her ears for hours afterward, making her very flesh creep.

It was a terribly long, tedious, laborious, foodless day, and when night gathered around she sought and found a large hollow tree, gathered branches, crept within, barricaded it, and, with a fervent prayer to Heaven, was soon lost in the deepest slumber of all her young lifetime.

Yet even blessed rest was denied her. Scarcely an hour had passed before she was awakened by something scratching without, and saw two red eyes peering in at her that flashed angry lightnings, while a deep roar told of some wild beast. Then she intuitively knew all that was to come—knew how much she was at the mercy of some savage monster!

She had taken up her quarters in the home of one of the huge bears of the mountains, and it was returning to its cubs!

Guided far more by impulse than reason, she grasped one of the largest of the branches and struck the hideous beast in the face, and then, as it drew back in astonishment, she sprung forth screaming, to the full extent of her lungs—sprung forth and ran swiftly away, the bear following, and it would very soon have torn her limb from limb had not the plaintive cries of its cubs recalled it, and with nature triumphing over passion it returned to the tree, giving her an opportunity to escape.

What should she do? She dared neither to stand still or go on—had lost all her reckoning—knew not in what direction she was going—was fainting from hunger—was powerless to protect herself. But with constant prayer for him she loved as well as her own safety she continued to wander, momentarily expecting to be confronted by some of the monsters of the forest. And so utterly hopeless became her state that she would have gladly gone back to the wigwams of the Indians, foolishly believing that her condition would excite their pity, had she known the way—have gone like a bleeding lamb into the den of wolves.

Slower became her journeying—fainter was her breath drawn. She could scarcely draw one poor bruised foot after the other, and it was evident even to her reeling senses that her end was very near—that she would soon have to perish in the wilderness—die alone without a single soul to pity, or kindly hand to close her eyes, and that her body would become the sport of wolves' whelps and foul carrion birds.

The idea was too horrible to be calmly endured, and a great cry of misery escaped from her fevered lips. She reeled against a tree, grasped it within her arms, and stood motionless as if turned into stone. The greatest horror of her existence had burst suddenly upon her. She saw by the dim light of the early morning that an Indian was coming toward her—knew that he had heard her screaming—knew that it was her fearful enemy, Muck-a-kee!

In an instant he was by her side and his heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder, and his harsh voice hissed into her trembling ears:

"So the pale-face thought to escape and has nearly perished in the wilderness? But she will wander no more. The wings of the dove shall be clipped so that she can not fly, and the limbs of the doe fettered so that she can not run."

"Merciful God, protect me," was all that she could gasp, as she was hurried along with more than brutal rapidity.

"The red-man has been constantly upon her trail," he continued, "since she escaped from the wigwam of old Metiz. He has followed her fast and far. Now she shall never leave his side again. Where he goes she shall go and he will make her obey."

"Where, oh, where are you going to take me?"

"Far away from even the village of his tribe. There he will keep her until her proud spirit is broken. He will tame her by hunger and thirst, and heavy loads, and the whip, and—"

"Oh, misery!"

"It is the song she will sing until death!"

Striking in a directly opposite direction to that of the encampment of the tribe, he soon emerged from the timber, and much to her comfort, even if not joy, she was lifted upon a horse and carried along until near noon. Then a swift-winged bullet suddenly put a stop to their course. It had pierced the skull of the horse, and he reared and fell backward, carrying his riders to the ground with him, and, as it appeared, crushing the Indian under him and hurling the girl to some distance, where she lay crippled, even if not dead.

Then the renegade Parsons issued from the woods, cautiously approached and crept around to obtain a better view before venturing nearer. But at length he became convinced that the Indian was powerless to do harm.

But, true to his training, the chief had counterfeited death to draw the white man to him, for, save his knife and hatchet, he was weaponless; and the instant the white man came within reach he sprung up and upon him with a yell of delight.

But, if a traitor and black-hearted villain, George Parsons was a good fighter when the test came—was muscular and desperate. He met the red warrior without flinching, and though the heavy buck-skin garments he wore protected him very much, while his antagonist was naked, save the shaggy bear-skin about his loins, yet the battle would have been a long one and doubtful had not his foot caught in a hole in the prairie, causing him to lose his balance and be thrown heavily.

Hurled backward upon the ground, the white man was at the mercy of one who never knew of such a thing, even in name, and who had many motives besides life and gaining the scalp of his enemy for winning the battle.

Quick as thought the Indian was upon the renegade, kneeling upon his arms and rendering them useless, while he felt of the point of his knife with a smile, and then ran his fingers along the ribs to make certain of the locality of the heart. But yet he hesitated to strike, and his face wore the look of the serpent when the bird is completely within its power, and it has only to dart out its forked tongue to bring death.

"Will the pale dog beg for his life?" he asked.

"Never!" was the reply of Parsons, knowing how useless it would be to do so.

"Then he will die!" hissed the Indian, "and with his bleeding scalp Muck-a-kee will deck the squaw of his race as he carries her away to be his wife."

"Devil!"

"The pale-face was a fool to think the girl would be his. She was destined from the first for the wigwam of the warrior."

"Oh! had I but known this!"

"It is too late, and he had better sing his death-song."

"Ha! ha! There comes a party of white men and the girl is rushing toward them."

For a single instant the red warrior forgot his cunning. He turned his head and somewhat loosened his hold. Parsons took advantage of it—wormed himself from under and sprung again to his feet. Never was the tide of battle more suddenly changed—never one renewed with more intense fury or more gallantly contested even though in a bad cause.

The knife of the Indian struck upon the hatchet of the white man and was shivered to the hilt. He flung the remnant aside with a curse upon the Manitou, and felt for his tomahawk. In the desperate struggle it had been loosened and fallen to the ground, and he was weaponless. With the cry of an enraged beast he closed with his antagonist, fastened his great teeth in his throat and hung on with the tenacity of a bull-dog. But it was his very last battle—his very last struggle.

Once—twice, the long knife of the white man was driven to his breast and twisted around with devilish malice. Then the set jaws relaxed—the eyes turned in their sockets, and the powerful chief of the Sioux fell backward to the earth, dead, and without a groan.

Smarting from pain—half-strangled—with the marks of teeth in his throat that he would carry to the grave, Parsons was forced to rest and take care of himself before he could even give a thought to the prize he had battled so desperately and nearly fatally for. But he hastened to tear away a portion of his garments, and having stanched the blood, crawled to where she was lying.

She saw him coming and attempted to fly—ran a little distance into the wood and then fell exhausted. Nature had already been too much overtaxed for her to endure more, and unless she could have rest and care, death would certainly follow and that at no great distance.

On gaining possession of Olive, the renegade would have instantly returned and joined his new-made friends the emigrants. But neither the captive nor himself was in a condition to do so and he was forced to remain. Yet scarcely had he fixed a place for a temporary encampment before there appeared before his startled eyes the Indian girl—Little Raven!

"The pale chief has found the squaw with the soft hair and skin like snow," she said, "and is taking her back to the wigwams of the red-man?"

"Yes—yes," he stammered, not daring to deny it.

"He has met a bear in the woods?" she asserted rather than asked.

"Yes," and he willingly enlarged upon the story that would save him from telling the truth.

"The Little Raven will dress his wounds," and having procured soft bark and gum she did so with exceeding skill.

"How came you here?" he asked.

"She was coming to meet her lover. Her heart longed for him as the deer for the salt-lick."

"For the love of heaven," exclaimed Olive, "save me from this brutal man. He has killed—"

"If the maiden of the white skin would live she must keep her tongue between her teeth," hissed the Indian girl, with a scowling face and half-drawing her knife.

"You are right, Raven," responded the renegade. "She must not speak, for she would utter nothing but lies."

"Has the pale chief visited his people and brought her present?" again questioned Little Raven.

"No. He found this girl and was hastening back to give her up to the tribe."

"And make Raven his wife?"

"Yes."

"Has he seen any thing of Muck-a-kee?"

"No."

"He is telling what is not true," interrupted Olive, "for he killed—"

"Let the pale squaw come again between the Raven and her lover and I will tear out her tongue!" and the knife of the squaw flashed so near her face that Olive shrunk back, covered her face with her hands and remained silent.

But when the squaw had gathered branches and made a shelter for Parsons and one at some distance for the white girl—when she had built a fire, cooked a little venison she had brought with her—had fed both—had steeped some roots and herbs and given the renegade to drink, she came and sat by her female companion with her drawn knife in her hand. Then once more Olive ventured to speak and ask:

"Will you not tell me what is to be done with me?"

"I will kill you as I would the rattlesnake that tried to bite me if you attempt to escape!" was the stern answer.

Another silence of an hour passed. Then the Little Raven arose and noiselessly sought the side of her pretended lover. She bent down so that her face almost touched his and listened long and earnestly, and having satisfied herself that his slumber was no counterfeit one, she returned to Olive, laid down beside her, and whispered:

"Now the pale squaw may talk. The ears of the chief are like those of the deaf adder. Little Raven is her friend. Let her tell all that has happened since she left the wigwams of the red-men."

"I thought you loved that man," replied Olive.

"I hate him, but he must not know it. Let the pale squaw open her heart, and it will be well for her," and she drew her companion to her and left a reassuring kiss upon her lips.

Then the poor prisoner did indeed open her heart and told all. The girl dashed out into the prairie and assured herself that the death of Muck-a-kee was no fable, and was consequently easily convinced of the truth of the rest, and after a little, persuaded Olive to sleep.

"The sun will again be high," she said, "before the eyes of the pale chief are open. The drink that Little Raven gave him will hold him next to death."

"And you will protect me?"

"With my life. But it will not be needed. Let her sleep."

The squaw released her from her warm embrace—drew her blanket over her head, and remained motionless for a long time. Then she cautiously arose, disappeared, and in an hour after was in the wigwam of the Burning Cloud.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SCOUT.

With the dawn of light the scout was astir, and began carefully investigating the ground. But he had gone over very little of it when he saw the old Medicine come sauntering along and enter his cave, that was so well guarded by beasts and reptiles. He watched until the old man came out again, trailed him as he visited the walled up spot where the physician was confined, and waited until he returned to the village, and then crawled near and gave vent to his thoughts after his own peculiar manner:

"Here am ernother of ther old devil's dens and I don't like ther looks on it nuther. But I must know all of his run-ways and what he am erbout. Besides, no one must know that I am eround and it may come handy ef I should have ter cut fer my life."

It was a wise though a dangerous resolution, and had not a party of hunters stopped directly in front of it to cook game, the suffering prisoner would have been immediately rescued. That prevented, but still he lingered near—crawled to the rocks above and watched them closely. It was at too great a distance, however, for him to hear what was being said, and curiosity drew him nearer. But he soon had occasion to regret it, for venturing upon the very verge of the cliff it crumbled beneath his weight and he rolled down like a great ball into their very midst!

The startled Indians fled in every direction, satisfied that it was the ghost of the man they had seen swinging from the tree above, and, taking advantage of their flight, the scout also disappeared, making the woods ring with hideous moans and laughter.

This story he knew would be circulated far and wide and believed by all but the Burning Cloud, and the valley avoided, especially after nightfall, so he prepared a number of rude torches, and having lighted one, he removed a stone, as the Medicine had done, and crawled into the prison-house of the nearly dead physician.

"Great God!" he exclaimed, as the sounds of suffering came to his ears, and he started back with the intention of retreating, for though he had enjoyed the fright of others he was not proof against the power of ghosts himself.

The sounds continued. Low moaning came distinctly, and straining his eyes he could discover nothing but a pile of stones, that so much resembled a grave as to make him shudder. Yes, it must be a ghost that was luring him to destruction, and the fate of the physician hung upon the most slender of threads.

"For the love of heaven," was breathed in a faint and trembling voice, "come and put an end to my wretched life, and I will even forgive all that you have done and pray for you."

"Great thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the scout, even more astonished than he had been before, "who be yer?"

"Oh! Wash—thank God—I am the doctor."

"Ther doctor!"

He could scarcely believe what he had heard. The physician alone and in such a place, and more than all in a tomb of stones! The scout hesitated not a moment, but, kindling a fire sufficient to illuminate the cavern, he then set to work with a will to remove the stones, muttering deep and bitter curses upon the hand that had placed them there. Then followed the loosening of the bonds, and tears came into his eyes as he saw to what a state the physician had been reduced, and holding him tenderly in his arms he heard his story.

"May ther devil burn and tear him with red-hot pinchers ferever and ever," growled the scout, from between his set teeth. "But, how much you must have suffered!"

"More than tongue can tell. But what of Olive? Is she alive? Is she well?"

"Yes—I believe so. But now, doctor, I must be off. I won't be gone very long and will bring yer somethin' to eat."

"Do not stay away any longer than is necessary."

"Yer kin bet all ther beaver-skins between heah and ther Mississip, I shan't be gone any longer than I kin posserbly help. I don't fancy ther neighborhood jest now any more than yer do."

"Now," muttered the scout, as he crawled forth into the open air again, "ter find ther Cloud."

It had grown very dark and he found his way along with difficulty, but knowing the direction of the village he steadily kept it until he could distinguish the light of the fires and even hear voices. He made his way to the trysting-place in the Indian graveyard and there awaited.

He had not long to wait, however, for Burning Cloud soon stole out from the wigwams, and when she reached the blazed trees that marked the spot devoted to the dwellings of the dead, she softly called the name of her lover.

He leaped lightly forward, and drawing her to him they sat down and conversed long and earnestly, for each had very much to tell.

Then he accompanied her as near the village as he dared—lingered and caressed her—and at last would have torn himself away and retreated to a more secure place. But, even as he turned around he was confronted by half a dozen warriors who had crept like serpents around, and was instantly pinioned.

But it was joy to him to know that the squaw had escaped, and still more so that she had been mistaken for a man. This their excited conversation among themselves revealed, and when questioned he boldly gave the name of Muck-a-kee!

Dragged into the center of the wigwams he was bound to the post of torture, and great rejoicing at his capture followed. And the very thing he had at first feared came to pass. He was known, and the air rung with the name of "Beaver Tail!"

CHAPTER XIV.

PLOTTING.

"Naudoway—see!" had been the exclamation of the brother of the Burning Cloud when he dashed almost breathless into her wigwam and flung himself panting upon the floor.

She did not question further at the time. The word 'enemy' convinced her, as she had before believed, that the renegade Parsons had proved as treacherous to her nation as he had been to his own, and with the remarkable patience of her race she waited for further revelation, brought water and bathed the feet of the nearly exhausted runner, gave him food and stimulating drinks, and then filled, lighted and handed him a pipe.

"The trail of my brother has been long and swift. He has known neither rest or sleep. Will he tell his sister what he has seen?"

He related the story, taking a long time for what could have been condensed into a few words. He had followed the white man—had seen him camp with a number of his own race—armed men—with plenty of wagons and horses—had told them a false story about his wife having been captured by the red-men and that she was destined to die of torture. And, believing this, they had promised to come and help kill the entire tribe and rescue her. But he was to come first—they follow more slowly and wait in ambush until he gave the signal. Then they were to rush forward, pour in their murderous rifle-shots and slaughter indiscriminately men, women and children.

"Is that all?" questioned the girl, trembling with suppressed passion.

"Yes?"

"Does any one know of this?"

"No one but you and the Manitou."

"Then keep it hidden within your heart. Keep it until the Burning Cloud tells you to speak, and the dearest wish of your heart shall be gratified."

"Does she know?" he began asking, in confusion.

"She knows that you love the Little Raven, and she shall certainly be yours."

"But the pale-face?"

"The Raven hates him," and then, under her breath, "even as I love another."

"My sister will keep her promise?"

"Before the moon of the falling leaf, she shall be singing sweet songs of love in your wigwam, and for your ear alone."

"It is enough. No torture shall cause my lips to be opened to any but you."

He passed out, and as soon as he had disappeared, the squaw took from her neck the richest string of wampum she possessed. She had destined it to be the brightest ornament at her own bridal. It was one she had woven for that express purpose. Muffling it in her blanket, she walked slowly to the home of the Little Raven, and there being no one else in the wigwam, she laid it in the lap of her friend, and said, in a mysterious whisper: "This from the Young Bear!"

The eyes of the Raven flashed with as much delight as surprise. Among all the braves she would have chosen the brother of the Burning Cloud for a lover. She turned the trinket over and over, and the visitor fancied at first it would be rejected; but when she saw it pressed warmly to her lips, and placed next to her heart, she was satisfied, and boldly proclaimed the secret object of her mission.

"The false-hearted pale-faced lover of the Raven is coming back to croak into her ears his lying words. She must meet him, pretend still to love him, lure him on, see that he does not turn aside from the trail, and let the Burning Cloud know all he says and does. Then she will see that no other eyes than hers look into the heart of the Young Bear, and that he sings into no other ears than hers. He will yet be a great chief, and his name be sung in the councils of the nation."

Wild with delight at the prospect, the young and passion-swayed squaw was ready to promise any thing, and, after listening to the instructions of her wiser and sharper sister, she at once took the trail, and was seen no more in the village until she came back bursting with the news of the death of Muck-a-kee, and the capture of the white girl by the renegade lover.

The Burning Cloud inquired very minutely into all the particulars, and her face glowed with gratitude and smiles as she learned how fate had favored her.

"But, will the pale-face sleep until the Raven returns again?" she asked.

"He drank deeply of the leaves that take away all feeling," was the reply, "and the sun will be above the tree-tops before his eyes are open again."

"And the squaw with the skin like the snow?"

"She is worn to a shadow, and so tired, her moccasins would grow faint, be the trail ever so short."

"It is well. Let the Raven go sleep."

Left alone, the Burning Cloud pondered long and deeply upon her course. The skein was twisted, and she saw no way of unraveling it. The motives that swayed her were various, and each was strong. Love was the master passion, and if driven to extremity, she would sacrifice every thing to that. But revenge upon the renegade was burning strongly within her soul, and longed to be satisfied with blood. As for the beautiful Olive, gratitude to the physician would do very much for him, but yet she had no very strongly marked interest in her fate, save that she would keep her from torture.

The web was indeed strangely interwoven with bright and dark threads, and she knew not which way to turn to clear the meshes to her satisfaction. Had she known of the fate of the scout—as she did subsequently—all would have been plain. Now she was groping in the dark. But she had to decide quickly, and after all the time that could be possibly given to thought she took to the forest, trusting to chance.

Midnight had long since faded into the small hours, and knowing that it would require all of her exertions to reach the spot—to which she had been directed by the Little Raven—before the dawn, she ran as rapidly as her strength would permit. Her keen eyes, trained to the darkness, enabled her to find the way when another would have been at fault, and she was rapidly putting the miles behind her when she came to a little spring that bubbled forth in the center of a dense thicket, and paused to quench her thirst and obtain a little rest. But even as she did so she became aware that something was crashing along behind her and—it might be man or beast—she drew back, hoping to escape unnoticed.

Vain hope! A black figure almost instantly stopped by her side, and an angry voice hissed into her ears—a voice that she knew but too well:

"So you have come to meet your pale-face lover?"

"The trail is open and my foot is free," she replied. "Who dare stop me?"

"I dare."

"By what right?"

"Though you have refused to be my wife yet the honor of the tribe is mine, and you shall not disgrace it."

"Honor?" and she started as if serpent-stung.

"Ay, honor," he replied, knowing full well that the word would reach her heart more painfully than a knife would have done. "The words of the pale-face are ever false. They whisper lies into the ears of the red-men—they trail them on to shame, and when they are asked for the father of their children they can only bow their heads into the dust."

"Burning Cloud is the daughter of a great chief," she answered, drawing herself up proudly. "He who couples her name with disgrace must beware!" and she half-drew her knife.

He knew as well as she did her pride of birth, and was determined to sting her upon the most tender point.

"The daughter of a chief when she stoops to love an enemy is worse than any other."

"Who says I have done so?"

"The whole tribe."

"Then some serpent has hissed the venom in their but too willing ears."

"It is the scout, Beaver Tail, though he stole the name like a thieving dog, that she loves."

"Well?"

"He has a wife in every tribe."

"It is false as the heart of the Wahkan Shecha."

"The Evil Spirit has poisoned her ears so that she can not tell the straight trail from the crooked one."

"Who says he has a wife in every tribe?" she questioned, fiercely.

"And when sleep has fallen upon the eyes of the red-man she steals out to meet him," he continued, without giving the slightest heed to her question.

"May the Manitou curse and palsy the lips that dare to utter such lies!" and her eyes rayed out dangerous flashings.

"But the warriors will find his trail and then he will die."

"He does not fear to do so."

"Does the Burning Cloud believe the words he whispers in her ears as she lies in his arms and gives her lips to his kisses?"

Every fiber in her frame quivered with passion, and the mastery by which she restrained herself was wonderful. He had heaped upon her the deepest insults she had ever received, but she was determined to bide the time when she could safely repay them with compound interest. Now she had other ends in view—from policy restrained her impetuous temper and he went on:

"The name of the nation is blackened by Burning Cloud."

"Her trail has ever been open."

"It is hidden like that of the mole."

"What would he have her do?"

"Tell the red warriors where the dog of a pale-face is hidden, and give him up to torture."

"Well?"

"Then let her choose a husband of her own people."

"Which means you!"

He saw that she had craftily read his purpose even before he had spoken of it, and went on even more bitterly than before.

"When the children cry for the father they shall never see and beg for bread—"

She spat in his face before he could finish the sentence, so intense was her passion. Her entire soul was up in arms and she hissed back:

"Oh, that I were a man but for a moment that I might cram the foul words down your throat and tear out your lying tongue!"

He laughed tauntingly and she proceeded:

"But, woman as I am, if you dare repeat your words or say aught against my honor I will do my best to brain you on the spot and let out your black blood for the cubs of the wolf to lap and grow fat on."

"She should have been a brave," he sneered.

"I am brave. Stand aside and let me pass."

"Listen to me," and he would have placed his hand upon her arm had she not drawn back. "You shall never be the wife of the pale-face—never see him again. I have long sought for this hour and now you shall swear by the great Manitou to be mine or—"

"When you can make the mountains bow down to the valleys, then I will be your wife, but until then, never."

"Because you love the pale-face?"

"Because I hate you!"

"And you shall have reason. Not far from here is the home of the rattlesnakes. Burning Cloud knows it well. If she will not be my wife I will throw her into their midst and none will ever know of her fate. Thousands of forked tongues will be darted at her—thousands of poisoned fangs be buried in her flesh—thousands of slimy bodies crawl over and around her while still living!"

"I would rather die even thus than become your wife," she cried as she sprung upon him, as suddenly and fiercely as does the mountain-cat upon the one who would rob her of her young.

Taken entirely by surprise the Indian received a severe wound in his shoulder before he could defend himself, and then, his anger at white heat, he grappled with the squaw and endeavored to master her. It was some time however before he could disarm her, gain possession of her hands and hold them. Then they stood face to face, she completely powerless to either injure or escape.

"Now," he asked, triumphantly, "will she promise to become his wife?"

"Never!"

"Then by the Manitou he will give her to the serpents!"

She shuddered at such a terrible fate and made the most desperate efforts to escape. And he found it most difficult to drag her along. But he succeeded in doing so, inch by inch and foot by foot until at last they stood above the terrible den.

"For the last time," he asked, "will you be my wife?"

What should she answer? She could distinctly hear the clashing of countless rattles—could smell the foul odors—could see the flashing of myriads of lidless eyes—the vibrating of the forked tongues that played like lambent lightning. For all the darkness around she could see the scaly folds of the numberless savage reptiles, that, disturbed by their footsteps, wormed in a living mass like boiling waves breaking upon some rocky beach. Horrible—the like of which earth holds not, and what could she do to avert such a fate?

Renounce the scout—perjure her very soul and become the wife of the one she not only detested but who would even thus dastardly seek to make her his own? The bare thought nerved her to even greater strength, and the battle became fierce indeed.

Then, when the Indian had succeeded in dragging her to the very verge of the rocky den, a strange light burst suddenly upon their eyes, and he drew her to him, and grasping her throat, almost strangled her in his efforts to keep her silent. A light flashed upon them—the report of a rifle was heard, and, with a mighty groan the treacherous Indian sunk backward to the ground.

A rush through the bushes was heard—a little party of white hunters who were out 'shining deer,' appeared upon the scene, and one exclaimed triumphantly:

"Buck or doe, my boys, it was my shot."

"Great Heaven!" replied the one who carried the torch; "you have killed an Indian!"

"An Indian? You must be mad."

"Look for yourself."

"God forgive me, it is true. I would have sworn it was the eyes of a deer I shot at."

"You are not the first man who has been deceived in the same way. But, what shall we do with the poor devil? It won't answer to have this known. Hark! What sound is that? A rattlesnake den as I am a sinner! Here is the opening. In with him, men."

It was soon done. Though he was already dead, his body found the same resting place he would have given her living one, and that portion of the party who had promised to assist the renegade Parsons (and were waiting for him) hastily decamped.

Of the Burning Cloud they knew nothing. The instant the iron hand unclasped from her throat she had skulked into the bushes and darted swiftly away.

CHAPTER XV.

HIDDEN WORKINGS.

It was just after daylight when Olive awoke from her slumbers, but so busy had her brain been with dreams that it was some little time before she could realize her situation. Then she looked around for the squaw that had promised to be kind to her—saw that she was sitting at a little distance with her blanket drawn over her head, and whispered:

"Little Raven?" after thinking for some time upon the name she had but once heard.

"It is not Little Raven," was answered in a strange voice. "She is in the wigwams of the Sioux. What would the squaw of the pale-faces?"

"Alas! she promised to be my friend."

"And why should I not be?"

"Because all of your people appear to hate me."

"There are good and bad in every nation. One of your own race has been your worst enemy."

"It is too true. Where is he now?"

"Sleeping as the Raven left him."

"Then if you are a friend you will fly with me."

"There is no danger. The snake is scotched. He may turn his fangs upon himself but can bite no one else."

"Who are you?"

"A squaw!"

The word was accented with the most extreme bitterness, and for a moment her eyes flashed with outraged feelings, but seeing that the white girl shrunk from her in fear she smoothed her face, threw back her blanket and drawing nearer to Olive continued:

"The Burning Cloud."

"What is that?"

"My name, in the tongue of the pale-face. She is the friend of Little Raven, and will be yours. But first let me tell what you are longing to hear."

"Of whom?"

"Whose name does her heart whisper the most?"

The girl blushed until her face would have shamed the gorgeous crimson-pink of the prairie, and leaned forward anxiously; but she made no reply, and the young squaw continued:

"It is the Medicine of the pale-face, and he is safe."

"Heaven be praised!"

"She can thank the Manitou and the scout. But he has passed through terrible trials."

"Alas! that he also has had to suffer."

"When the black ravens of death were croaking into his ears, and in another hour he would have been wandering on the shores of the dark river that rolls between this and the country of souls, he waded through dangers as through a mighty flood and saved him."

"Tell me, that I may know how to thank him."

"He is himself upon the trail of death!" she replied, very slowly and sorrowfully, and with her eyes overflowing with tears. "But the Burning Cloud will save him or die!"

"You?" asked Olive, in astonishment.

"Can not one with skin like the chestnut, love as well as her who is like the lily?"

"Certainly. Hearts are the same. And you love—"

"I came not to talk of him. The Medicine is his friend, and for his sake Burning Cloud would save you. Let her get up and come with me."

"Where?"

"If she doubts, she may follow her own trail. If she trusts, she may come."

Too weak to contend, even if she had been disposed to do so, Olive arose and accompanied her to the spot where the renegade, Parsons, was lying, bound hand and foot, and loudly cursing the one that had made him so.

"Little Raven," he said, as soon as the squaw came in sight, "what does this mean?"

"Let him look again," she replied, calmly, stepping forward, so as to give him a clear view of her face.

"You—I do not know you."

"But I do you," she hissed, rather than spoke.

"No, no. You are mistaken. I have never met you before."

"The pale thief has a bad memory or lies."

"I am certain I am right."

"Listen."

She briefly recounted what had transpired at their first meeting, and he trembled as a coward, as she proceeded:

"More than that, he has lied to the Little Raven, and this poor white squaw. But the dark-mouthed wolves of death are upon his trail."

"You are wrong," he stammered.

"Wrong? Does he know her?" and she dragged the unwilling Olive forward, and turning to her, said, as she held out her knife: "Take this and revenge yourself until your heart is satisfied. Cut away his skin, little by little, until his body looks as if spotted with the small-pox. Do any thing you wish so that you do not take his life. When death comes, it must be at the hands of the red-man."

"I can not—can not!" shrieked the white girl, as she turned away in horror, even at the thought.

"It is well for him," continued the savage-minded squaw, "that our places are not changed. Then, indeed, he might have reason to tremble, for I would have led him such a dance of death as would have made him crawl like a serpent in the dust, and beg for death. But will you take no revenge upon him?"

"None—none!" still gasped Olive.

"At but a little distance is a wet spot, where the reeds grow tall and the grass rank. There the musketoes and buffalo-gnats and the great green-headed flies breed and swarm. Will she help the Burning Cloud to drag him thither, so that they may sting him like thousands of needles, poison his flesh, and suck his blood, and yet he can not brush them off?"

"No; no!"

"The heart of the pale-face is too soft. The child of the red-man could sit by his side and laugh to see his struggles, and sing when he groaned."

"For the love of heaven," pleaded the affrighted Olive, "let us leave him and get to a place of safety."

"Leave him!" answered the squaw, in a voice that thrilled with emotion. "Leave him? You know not what you ask. A life worth as many thousands of his as there are sands on the sea-shore may be hanging upon it. But we will not stay here. There is yet a long trail to be traveled. Get up, dog!"

She kicked the prostrate form and made him struggle to his feet—a difficult task for one so cunningly fettered. But at last it was accomplished, and she loosened the bandages so as to enable him to walk. Then she took a stout thong of buck-skin from her girdle, looped it around his neck so that it would cut into the flesh and strangle him in case of resistance, and dragged him forward, as miserable, guilty, terrified a wretch as could have been found upon the entire face of the earth.

"For God's sake," he gasped, "have a little mercy."

"Did you have any on this poor girl?" she asked.

"If I must die, at least leave me in peace until then."

"If I could have my way," was the fierce response, "I would tie you to the tail of an unbroken colt, turn him loose, and let him drag you until every particle of flesh was torn off from your body inch by inch. But let him be dumb, or this!" and she pressed the sharp point of her knife against his side until it penetrated through the clothing and pierced the flesh.

Avoiding the beaten trail, the squaw—followed by the white girl—led her wretched captive—often sneering at him for being the prisoner of a woman—toward the village of the Sioux. Whatever was her purpose she kept it hidden within her own brain—would answer no questions—paused only when Olive was compelled to rest, and even denied the renegade a single drop of water, and drove him forward with her knife when his pace became too slow to suit her.

But, as the day drew on and they were nearing the village of her people—were passing through a deep, dark valley so narrow that the branches of the trees on either side bent over and interlocked, she suddenly paused—motioned Olive, and forcibly dragged her captive to the ground, drew the cord still more tightly around his throat, and holding the point of her knife in one hand, directly above his heart, lifted a great stone in the other, and whispered in his shrinking ear:

"Make the slightest noise—dare but to speak—breathe louder than common, and I swear by the Manitou that I will drive the knife through you before any one can come to your assistance."

Her face, terrible in its vindictiveness, told that she would not scruple to carry out her threat, and he shivered for fear accident might accomplish it even if design did not.

He knew better than she did that they were near the spot where his new friends had encamped—that a scouting party were upon the hill directly above them—that a single call would bring them to his side—would bring him freedom. Yet he dare make no sound—was forced to motionless silence. The line that sustained his life was as brittle as a spider's web. The fierce eyes of the Indian girl were upon him—the hand that held the knife as firm as a rock. In fact a single loud breath would have ended in a parting groan, and desperate as was his situation in other respects, a sigh of relief escaped him as the little party of white men passed along and Burning Cloud laid aside the heavy stone and withdrew her terrible weapon.

"Get up," she whispered, "and go on silently. By the Manitou of the pale-man as well as the red, I will strangle you and bury my weapon in your breast if you utter a single sound or make an effort to let any know you are here."

He could do nothing but obey, and journeyed wearily on until she bade him pause. Then she gave the low, plaintive cry of the whippowil, thrice repeated, and in an instant after her brother was by her side—her brother and the Little Raven.

"You will guard him more carefully than your life or honor," commanded Burning Cloud. "Keep him here until you hear from me again. Come," she continued to Olive, who was wondering what the end of this strange journey would be, and taking her by the hand she avoided the wigwams.

"Oh! tell me," asked Olive, who, from what she had seen, was afraid of her companion, "oh! tell me where you are going to take me."

"To safety and to—Hist!"

She drew her to the ground, and covered her with her blanket—bade her lie still as death, and left her side—left her alone for what seemed months. Then she returned, and her voice was sad and step heavy.

"Him I love," she said, no longer attempting to conceal her passion, "is a prisoner, and tied to the post of torture."

"Great heaven! The scout?"

"Even him. But don't talk. Come quickly."

"You have not yet told me where?"

Burning Cloud made no answer. She hurried the girl along regardless of all obstacles, and soon stopped in front of the walled-up cavern and removed one of the stones.

"What is your lover's name?" she asked, and then, as she hesitated, continued, "Call him."

Olive did so—was answered, and a moment after they were fast locked in each other's arms, and lip was responding to lip.

"Back with the stone into its place," hoarsely commanded the squaw. "Don't stir from here on peril of your lives. Now to save him or die in the attempt!"

CHAPTER XVI.

TERRIBLE TORTURE.

After a time the scout was removed from the post to which he had been bound, led into a wigwam, and having been fettered securely, was left to himself until the dawning of another day should afford the opportunity for torture.

So noted a hunter and scout as Beaver Tail could not be hurried out of the world. Great éclat must be given to the event—every one of the warriors must be notified—the torture must be of the superlative degree.

But, great was their astonishment when the sun rose again and the wigwam was found to be empty!

Numbers would have sworn that they had been constantly on the watch, and he had not gone forth—that, save the braves and the squaws, no one had been seen—that he must have vanished, even as the mist of morning before the hot sun.

Yet, even while they were discussing what could possibly have become of him, the scout was laughing in the forest, with the Indian girl, at the tumult his flight had caused.

"It was most mighty cute of you, Cloud," he said, "ter think of such a thing, and none but a smart woman like you could have posserbly carried it out, without bein' found out."

"I feared," she replied, looking up lovingly into his face, "that even after I had thrown the blankets and dresses into the wigwam, as Little Raven and I were walking along, that you would not be able to get your hands loose, and then all would have been useless."

"It was hard, that am er fact. But I l'arned somethin' of ther doctor, and as yer war smart enuff ter throw in er knife too, I managed ter git ther blade between my teeth and use it like er saw until ther confounded thongs parted. But sich er time as I had gittin' ther things on! And though I didn't see my way clear by a long shot, I couldn't help laffin' ter think how like ther Old Scratch I would look in yer woman's toggery. But I had ter wait er long time berfore I dared venture out."

"The heart of Burning Cloud beat more swiftly than it had ever done before, and she trembled like the leaves of the poplar in the winds of winter."

"Yet somebody helped me, or I would have stuck fast, and more'n likely bin a-roastin' by this time. Did yer have er hand in that ar' fracas?"

"I told Little Raven and my brother," she answered, with a smile, "to go to the other side of the village and manage some way to draw the warriors there while I gathered a crowd of young squaws for you to mingle with and pass out of sight."

"And they did it most effectually! I never heard sich a screamin' and yellin' and dorg-fightin' in all my born days, so I jest peeped out ter see what ther row was, and findin' ther coast cl'ar, ventered."

"And soon was in a place of safety?"

"Yes, and more'n that, did er leetle matter of business arter you had gone."

"What was that?" she questioned, curiously.

"Ther old Medercine will find out when he goes wanderin' inter his devil's den ergin."

"Have you been to the secret cave of the Medicine?" she asked, trembling with fear as she heard his answer, and looking upon him with intense admiration as the bravest of the brave.

"I was thar. But I don't think I shall ever have any occasion ter go ergin."

"What did you see?"

"I'll tell yer some time when we ain't got quite so much on hand—some time when every thin' is peace and plenty around us and we've got nothing to do but to talk and make love," and he gave her a sample in advance.

"And now?" she questioned, as she released herself with some difficulty from his over-warm embrace, even though pleased with it.

"Wal, ther plan we have talked about seems ter be ther best, and I reckon we had better cling ter it."

"Then the Burning Cloud will go."

"It am about time."

Released, after another shower of kisses, the Indian girl stole back again into the village and mingled with the crowd that surrounded the Medicine. He was very much engaged in attempting to explain what he knew nothing about, and was boldly asserting that the Evil Spirit had carried off the scout bodily—that he had vanished like smoke and would never be seen again, when a muffled form forced its way to where he was standing, and, throwing aside the blanket that enfolded him, the missing prisoner stood revealed, and said with a half-smile:

"I don't think ther Old Scratch has got hold on me yet, whatever he may do some of these days."

The appearance of the Evil One, with hoofs, horns, claws and brimstone-breath, could scarcely have produced a more decided impression. The warriors started back in terror, the squaws fled shrieking—the Medicine stood aghast, and had the scout been so minded he could have gone whichever way he willed without any one daring to molest him. But such was not his purpose. The part he was to play had been well thought of, and, after giving them time to become somewhat convinced that he was not a ghost escaped from the graveyard, he continued:

"Warriors of ther Sioux, thar's er good many of yer who have known me fer years and yer have always found my trail er honest and er open one. We have bin friends and I mean that we shall be so ergin. Ef I had been er mind I could have got whar yer never could have found me and it would have been mighty dangerous fer yer ter come."

"Beaver Tail is cunning upon the trail and brave on the war-path," replied the chief, obliged to say something.

"Wal, I don't make no boast of fightin'—it hain't my trade. But I won my name fairly in trappin' beaver, and yer know they are a cunnin' varmint."

"The skins he has taken are countless as the stars."

"Not quite so many as that. But I didn't come back to brag. Yer see, I trusted ye, and knew we would be friends ergin, when yer got ther black scales from before yer eyes, an' stood in ther sunshine, an' could see things as they am. So I came back with naked hands. S'arch me, ef yer have er mind ter, an' yer won't find a weepon of any kind, not even so much as ther leetlest knife, erbout me."

"Whatever trail his moccasins may have traveled, his tongue is journeying that of truth."

"Yer kin bet every buffler-robe yer 've got on that, and win."

"Beaver Tail is wise. But he did not come back into the wigwams of the Sioux to tell them this?"

"Not a bit on it. But I had ter go through with what the law-makers of my people call ther preramble fust. What I come back fer war ter whisper in yer ears that yer have bin nussin' a pesky, p'ison sarpint in yer bosom, an' it am a-gittin' ready ter sting yer ter the heart—all on yer."

There was a great commotion, and every one pressed still nearer to catch his words, entirely forgetting their recent fears, while the confused old Medicine muttered mysteriously:

"I knew there was some great danger coming, from the black circles around the moon, and the rattling of the bones of the dead in their coffins."

"Wal, ef yer did, yer took good keer ter keep it ter yerself, old fuss and snake-skins and feathers."

"Let Beaver Tail go on," commanded the chief.

"And I'll make short work on it, too. The pale-face whom yer trusted an' treated as a brother, are the blackest kind of a traitor."

"Ugh!"

"He has bin stealin' away, an' has got a great lot of warriors hidden within a few miles, and they intend ter come an' butcher ye all—men an' wimin an' children—jist on ercount of his lies."

"How do you know this?"

"Wal, I found it out; an' ter show I war yer friend, I scouted around and found whar they am encamped, and got ther best of ther white-skinned devil, and have him jist as safe as yer ever did a wolf in a trap loaded with stones."

"Where is he?"

"That hain't the question now. In the fust place, yer must know that I speak the truth. Thar's the brave Young Bear, an' Burning Cloud, an' the Leetle Raven, as yer call them. See if all on them don't say the same thing."

"Beaver Tail speaks well."

"And ther truth."

The three whom he had designated came forward and gave their testimony, and then Young Bear told of having trailed the party, who were hidden in the forest awaiting the signal of the renegade, Parsons, and that there was quite a force and well armed.

"Thar!" exclaimed the scout, triumphantly; "hain't it jist as I said?"

"Beaver Tail is our brother!" answered a hundred voices.

"An' likely to be more so than yer knows on," with a sly wink at Burning Cloud.

"Where is the traitor? Let our brother tell, that we may put him to the torture, and then go and drive our enemies before us as the wolves do the deer."

"Now, yer jist hain't a-goin' ter do any thin' of the kind! Yer kin have the traitor fer torture, an' welcome, fer I never saw any one that more desarved it. But, yer hain't a-goin' ter fight the rest. I'll go an' explain it all, an' send them about thar business. Will yer agree ter that?"

"There would be many scalps," mused the chief.

"An' yer'd be likely ter lose yer own, an' have the hull tribe wiped clean out of the 'arth."

A brief discussion followed, and a faithful promise having been given that no one of white skin should be molested but Parsons, the scout gave a signal to the brother of the Burning Cloud, who, with another brave, instantly disappeared. They soon returned, dragging along the renegade, and the shout that then rent the heavens could have been heard for miles.

"Now," said the scout, "yer can't expect me ter take er hand in yer punishment. It wouldn't be nateral fer me ter do so. But ef I had my way I'd whip him like er dorg."

It was an entirely new idea to the Indians, and immediately seized upon. Despite his struggles and his pleadings, the renegade was dragged to the post of torture—his garments cut away to his waist and his naked back exposed. Then a dozen hands brought tough sprouts of the hickory, and applied them with all the strength of their muscular arms.

The scout took advantage of the excitement attending the torture to make a visit to the physician, whom he found among the happiest of mortals. Fearing that something might still happen to him and his beautiful Olive, the old scout secured the Young Bear and Little Raven as guides and protectors, and saw them fairly started to join the party waiting for the renegade.

"Yer kin tell them better nor I could," said the honest-hearted fellow, "all erbout it."

"And you?" asked the physician.

"Wal, I've got ter stay and see the ther thing out."

"And then?"

"Why," blushing like a school-boy detected in stealing his first kiss, "I'll have ter talk with ther Burning Cloud er leetle erbout that. She hain't got so fair er skin as yer wife that am ter be, doctor, but her heart am jest as white."

"I don't doubt it in the least."

"Ther fact am we perpose ter travel in double harness ther rest on our lives and stick up er wigwam somewhar, though I can't tell jest yet whar it will be."

"She is a good and brave girl."

"Yes, all of that, and ther Little Raven am ernuther. It hain't often yer kin find sich squaws. But, yer mustn't stand heah er talkin'. Git ter ther camp of ther white folks as soon as ever yer kin."

"But, we shall certainly see you again?"

"More'n likely. Yes, we—that am ther Cloud and me—will strike yer trail berfore long, and prehaps keep on with yer till ther end. I've quite er notion ter gi'n up this 'er' jerrymanderin' life and settle down, and I reckon diggin' gold will suit me as well as any thin' else, 'specially as it am in er country whar I kin hunt when I have er mind ter."

He wrung both their hands, went with them as far as possible upon the trail, and then returned to talk to his dusky love about their future. But as the shadows lengthened he was again attracted to the prisoner, and saw that the torture had been renewed.

He was standing tied to the fire-blackened post, evidently more dead than alive. Almost entirely stripped of his clothing there was not a spot to be found that did not bear the marks of arrow, hatchet, knife or whip, and the blood that had oozed forth had congealed and gave him the most ghastly appearance that could be imagined. His hair and whiskers were clotted and his face streaked with gore, and between the crimson lines was white as chalk, while the working of the muscles—twitching constantly with pain—made the strong-hearted scout shudder and grow faint even to gaze upon.

Night passed, and with every mark of the horrid torture removed, the village rung with notes of joy. It had become known that the white man wished to be adopted into the tribe—that he was to take the Burning Cloud for a wife and that he had already notified the chief to that effect.

Great, consequently, were the preparations, especially as the Young Bear and Little Raven would be married at the same time, and the simple ceremony having been performed, the entire tribe feasted—and made gluttons of themselves.

Then the newly married couples stole away to pass their honeymoon alone. Such a thing was common, and nothing was thought of it. But though one returned after the lapse of a few days, of the other nothing was ever seen, and the scout and his bride became only a remembrance among the Sioux.

CHAPTER XVII.

AFTER THE CLOUDS—THE SUN!

The party to which the renegade Parsons had applied for assistance waited a long time for his coming and were about to give him up, when they were surprised by the appearance of the doctor and the beautiful Olive; and when all had been explained they waxed most exceedingly wroth and determined to leave the traitor to his fate.

In that they were wise.

Notwithstanding all the promises given to the scout, they had numerous spies out, and upon the first symptom of retaliation they would have ambushed, and cut to pieces the entire party—so little faith is there to be put in the word of the generality of Indians.

That the renegade would be punished far more effectually than they would have had the heart to carry out they did not doubt, and leaving him to his fate they returned to the waiting wagons, resumed the journey that had been interrupted, and pressed forward to make up for the precious time that had been lost.

It was almost as heaven for the doctor and Olive to be together again and in safety, and each had so much to tell that the long summer days were far too short. The sufferings through which they had passed made their love doubly dear, and they longed for the time when they could be joined in marriage.

That, however, was denied them until some settlement could be reached. But while thinking thus of their own happiness they never failed to remember the scout and Burning Cloud with tears of gratitude, and as the days lengthened out into a week, they wondered very much what had become of them.

One night their suspense was unexpectedly relieved. The couple were found waiting for the train on the banks of a river, and thenceforward the scout resumed his old position of guide, and as they were gathered around the little camp-fire he filled in the outlines of the story that the doctor had merely sketched.

When the first frontier fort was reached there was a double wedding, and though Olive shone in all her wondrous beauty yet the dusky child of the forest almost rivaled her in her semi-savage charms. This proceeding the scout, though more from bashfulness than for any other reason, had somewhat opposed.

"We have been married once," he said, "and ther Cloud am satisfied and so am I."

"It was a heathen ceremony," suggested Olive, who, womanlike, had her peculiar notions of what constituted the fitness of such things.

"Wal, it mought be, but thar hain't no priest nor prayer-book that kin bind us any tighter than we now am, nor make us any more true."

"That may be. But remember you come of a Christian people, and must educate your wife."

"When I hain't got no edercation myself!" he laughed.

Nevertheless he consented after having a talk with the Indian girl, and finding it was her wish to be married by the "Medicine of the Manitou of the pale-faces," and so it was done.

"And speakin' of the Medicine," the scout said, a few days afterward, when they were talking over the subject, "reminds me of ther old one of ther Sioux."

"What has become of him?" questioned the doctor. "I owe him a deep debt of vengeance, but I fear it will never be paid."

"Ef it hain't by this time I am very much mistaken."

"You did not kill him?"

"Not exactly, but I reckon it resulted in ther same thing."

"I do not understand how that can be."

"Wal, I'll tell yer, and that puts me in mind that I promised you, Cloud, ter do so some day. Don't yer remember what I said erbout er leetle business?"

"She never forgets what her brave tells," was the truthful and characteristic answer of the Indian woman, who looked up to her husband as no one of purely white skin would ever have done.

"Fust I must give yer er description of what kind of er den the old Satan kept."

He proceeded at length to do so, and then described how he had removed the ash and untied the animals so that both they and the terrible serpents could have full play.

"He must have met a fearful death," replied the physician, with a shudder.

"Thar hain't no doubt on that. Ef he chanced to miss ther sarpints—which I don't think he could—thar b'ar and ther wildcat must have gone fer him savagely and chawed him up in erbout no time."

"But his death was as nothing compared to that of the wretched white man."

"No, heaven keep us all from sich er one!"

The journey was finished without accident, and a few years later both the doctor and the scout had made themselves comfortable—one by practice and the other by patient industry and hunting. But never have they—never will they forget the terrible scenes through which they passed, and their children hear the story told with shudders. What then must have been the reality?

THE END.

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