THE RED WIZARD:

                                  OR,

                           THE CAVE CAPTIVE.

                         BY LIEUT. NED HUNTER.

                               NEW YORK:
                     BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
                          98 WILLIAM STREET.


      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
                          FRANK STARR & CO.,
      In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                            THE RED WIZARD;

                                  OR,

                           THE CAVE CAPTIVE.




                              CHAPTER I.

                           THE YOUNG SQUAW.


"Ef yer strike that gal, by ther heavings erbove I'll send er bullet
through yer skull or bury my knife in yer heart," and the speaker's
demeanor told that the words were not idle ones.

"You are uncommonly tender of a squaw!" was the sneering reply, though
the man drew back and restored the hatchet he had drawn to his belt.

"Am I?" and his black eyes flashed fire.

"Yes, for I have heard that you trappers and scouts make it a point to
kill every Indian you come across."

"It may be the case with some, but it hain't my way, man. When it comes
ter fightin' I always try ter do my share of ther killin', but murder
in cold blood ain't in my line. No, sir! An' what's more, no man ain't
er goin' ter do it while I am erround, without he calkerlates ter fight
with Wash Lawton."

"Lawton is right and you wrong, Parsons," said a third man, breaking
in upon the conversation. "The squaw has done us no injury, and the
wholesale butchery that so many appear to delight in, is not only
against reason but the most common humanity."

"Yes, I know I'm right," answered the confident scout. "Ef it war er
spy now, and thar war er party of Injuns out-lyin' eround, ther case
would be different. But this am er gal, and er young and pooty one fer
her tribe, and I hain't goin' ter see her erbused, nohow."

"And I am on your side," chimed in the physician.

"You'll see what will come of it," growled Parsons, as he turned
sulkily away. "Even if it is nothing but a girl, she has eyes and ears
and feet, and can carry the news far. You might just as well spare a
rattlesnake because it was little. They all have poison."

"Wal," returned the unabashed scout, "I never knew any harm ter come by
doin' er good action even ter er Injun. And, let me tell yer one thing,
mister; those who are ther most bloody-minded always come ter thar
worst and most sudden end."

"And now," continued the doctor, as Parsons disappeared, "suppose you
talk to the girl and tell her she shall not be injured. I presume you
understand the lingo?"

"Thar isn't one between heah and ther mountings that I hain't had
somethin' ter do with, fust or last. Ther gal am er Sioux."

"How can you tell that?"

"Jest as easerly as kin be," and he turned to and began addressing her
in her native tongue.

The little train of emigrants had been about camping for the night in
a little belt of timber by the side of a river when George Parsons
had come suddenly upon a young squaw lying, ambushed as he presumed,
in a thicket, and the girl would have been brained had not the scout
interposed.

When spoken to in her mother tongue, by the scout, she arose and
conversed freely, and for the first time the physician saw one with a
red skin that had some claims to beauty; for her form was straight, her
eyes soft in expression, though fire was hidden in them, her hair long
but finer than the generality, and of intense blackness, her features
regular and the mouth small and lips thin, her complexion a light
olive. To add to all, she was neatly dressed.

Her story, as told to the scout and interpreted by him, was a simple
one. Traveling alone from one village to another, her pony had fallen
and escaped from her, and after following the trail until night was at
hand, she was preparing to camp when she was surprised.

"Ask her if she isn't hurt," suggested the doctor; "it strikes me that
she is in pain and trying to conceal it."

The scout did so, and for answer the squaw let her blanket slip from
one shoulder.

"Great heaven!" shouted the doctor; "arm broken and no fuss made about
it!"

He drew near and was about to lay his hand upon the injured limb, but
the squaw drew back, and, with her remaining hand touched her knife in
a significant manner.

"He is a medicine," explained the scout.

In an instant the girl became calm and submitted to the manipulations
of the physician. The fractured member was set and bandaged in the most
approved fashion. She evidently experienced great relief, and though
she could not thank the doctor with her tongue, she did with her eyes
in a very forcible manner.

"Now tell her," continued the doctor, "that she will have to keep
quiet. I have known slighter fractures result dangerously--inflammation
set in, and all that sort of thing. And tell her, too, that you and I
will protect her and see that she has a comfortable place to sleep,
and something to eat, and that she shall ride with us as far as she
pleases."

The information was duly given, and received with unconcealed pleasure,
though with little of demonstration, save the simple words:

"Washtado Chemockomaun."

"And that is?" asked the doctor of the scout.

"Good white-man."

"Well, it is something to receive praise from one of her race. And now,
Wash, you take care of her. I will see her again in the morning and
try to have her comfortable before she leaves us. I never saw one so
patient before under suffering in all my practice."

"It is thar nature. But I want to see ther leetle blue-eyed gal in ther
camp that--"

"Hush! What noise was that?"

It proved that some of the men who had been scouting about had caught
a pony and brought him in. It was the squaw's own beast. Wash, at her
request, saw that he was fastened at a little distance and properly
fed. Then he turned his attention again to its mistress.

She followed him, partook thankfully of food, and though she declined
to accept of his offer to sleep in one of the wagons, she crept
beneath, did not refuse an extra blanket, and when he last looked at
her she was apparently enjoying a healthy slumber.

But, how long she remained no one could say. Just before dawn there was
an alarm of Indians, and when matters again became quiet they looked
and found that both she and her pony had disappeared.

"It am ther nature of ther beast," said the scout. "But she will not
ferget our kindness, doctor, and ef ever she kin do us er good turn yer
kin safely bet yer life that she will."

"And bring the whole tribe down upon us," suggested George Parsons.

"Then mind yer hain't ther fust ter lose yer scalp," rejoined the scout.

The little caravan started again and journeyed until the western sun
warned them to prepare for the night. This took place in nearly the
center of a considerable prairie, with nothing worthy of the name of
timber in sight. It was then noticed that Parsons--who had ridden ahead
during the afternoon--had not returned, and it was suggested by some
that he might have been captured by the Indians.

"I don't think it likely," replied the scout, "fer I hain't seen no
signs. When er man starts on er huntin'-trail he never kin tell whar
the end will be. But all we've got to do am ter keep er sharp look-out."

Midnight came and the missing man had not returned. But their own fate
was on trial, and in what followed the missing man was forgotten.




                              CHAPTER II.

                         THE SUDDEN AWAKENING.


"Listen to me, Olive, and believe that I feel very deeply the words my
tongue utters. You have become very dear to me--dearer than any thing
else of this world--and I love you, Olive."

The girl glanced swiftly up from under her long lashes, then dropped
her eyes again and her face was crimsoned with blushes, and the little
hand he had obtained and was holding firmly, though tenderly, trembled
fitfully, and nothing save a sigh escaped her lips.

"Olive," he continued, drawing still nearer to her, "it can not be that
I am mistaken--that you look coldly upon me--that you take no pleasure
in my society--can not be that you have not seen the true state of my
heart? Tell me, am I disagreeable to you?"

"Oh! no, no," she murmured, in deep agitation.

"Then, darling--may I not call you so? Give me hope for the future.
When we have finished our journey and the shores of the Pacific are
reached, may I not believe you will become mine--be my wife?"

As actions speak even louder than words, so hers told him all he
desired to know, and with the clouds of doubt drifted away from their
souls, peace came, and love given and returned made them very happy.

Like all unmarried men who cross the plains, when there are pretty
women in the company, the doctor, Ernest Mayo, soon found that he had a
heart, and that its longings took but one direction.

He met Olive Myers for the first time--a girl slightly his junior, with
a fair, pure face, laughing blue eyes, hair of the color of the ripe
chestnut when just bursting from the shell, and a mouth that appeared
to woo kisses. She was of good parentage (though now an orphan) and
well educated.

She was drifting California-ward with an uncle and his family, and as
Mayo was a gentleman, gladly accepted his company and protection.

More secure from molestation during the lonely night-watches than at
any other time, she was accustomed to keep him company, and this night,
when no one was within hearing, the intensity of their hearts strung to
passion found vent for the first time.

With his arm around her waist, with one hand clasped in his, with her
head resting on and showering down its wealth of chestnut curls upon
his shoulder, they remained whispering such impassioned words as only
lovers use until near the hour for changing the guard. Then the girl
suddenly asked if Parsons had returned.

"No, dearest," he answered. "Do you take an interest in him?"

"I have no interest in any one but you," she answered, turning her
blushing face to him and proffering her lips for a kiss. "But I fear
him."

"Fear him? On what account?"

"Not for myself, but you, darling."

"I can not understand why, Olive."

"Because, he is envious--jealous!"

"Of me?"

"Yes. He once offered me his love and I refused it, and no later than
yesterday he accused me of loving you."

"Which you denied, of course," he replied with a smile.

"I neither denied nor admitted. But I fear when he learns the truth, he
will seek an opportunity to injure you," and the bare anticipation made
her shudder.

"Don't tremble, little one," he answered, glad of an opportunity to
again kiss the red lips. "No harm will come of it. He is a coward."

"But if he should. Oh! heaven!" and her beautiful eyes became misty
with tears.

"He will not, be assured. Yet I can pardon him for something of his
feelings, in being robbed of so great, so lovely a prize. Olive,
darling, what would I have done without you?"

"And I without you?" she murmured in response, as she gave and returned
his passionate caresses.

"Indians! Indians!"

They sprung apart, and the scout, who had been sleeping, as he was wont
to say, 'with one eye open,' was instantly upon his feet and by their
side. But "wolf," had been cried so often that he was disposed to doubt
its truth, and springing upon a wagon he looked abroad. The prairie lay
as dead and silent as when he last looked upon it, and he would have
laughed at their fears had not something in the actions of the horses
arrested his attention.

"Thar's something not exactly right thar," he muttered, "for stock
don't ginerally make a fuss at this time of the night."

"What do you think can be the cause?" asked the doctor, who, with the
girl he loved so tenderly, had drawn near.

"That's mighty hard to tell. It may be a pack of wolves have come
between them and ther wind, or ef we war near the timber I should say a
b'ar, but that couldn't well be ther case heah. Howsomever, I'm goin'
to find out."

"Let me go with you," suggested the doctor.

"For the love of heaven, no!" whispered the distracted Olive, clinging
to his arm. "If any thing were to happen to you, darling, I should die."

"The gal am right," replied the scout, sedately, though there was a
merry twinkle in his eye. "I had better go alone. Hark!"

He dropped to the ground as suddenly as if felled by a blow, and
remained for some time unstirring. His entire manner had changed; all
of recklessness departed, and his movements became as cunning as those
of a serpent. Still keeping his recumbent position he motioned the
physician and said:

"You go and put out ther fires, and mind yer don't git in the light on
'em any more than you kin help."

"But I hear nothing but some wolves whining and howling."

"Yes, wolves. That am ther very name, fer that's what Sioux stands fer.
Yes, wolves. Two-legged ones, whose bite ar' death!"

"You can not mean that those sounds are counterfeit?"

"It war well done--very well done--and would have deceived most any
one, but, it can't me, by er long shot."

"For goodness sake tell me what you think."

"That ther red-skins am eround--am er callin' ter one enuther, and
that they'll most proberbly be down upon ther wagons like er drove of
bufflers, that's all!"

"Then do not venture out. Your rifle might be worth a hundred men."

"It kin do some good shootin', that am er fact. But I must try and
gather in ther hosses. They am ther fust thing ther red devils will be
arter. Ther hosses must be saved or we am lost. Hist! No more talkin'.
Get ther gal inter ther most likely place fer safety, and then out with
ther fire and see that every one am ready fer fight. Ef I shouldn't
ever come back, good-by, and may ther Lord take a likin' ter yer
and--and yer sweetheart, and say that Wash Lawton did his dooty, and
died like er man."

He crawled swiftly away toward the horses, and it was time some
controlling spirit was among them. A few had already broken loose and
were running hither and thither, with heads and tails erect, eyes wild
with terror, snorting and whistling, while the remainder were straining
at their halters and threatening instant stampede.

"Thar am deviltry afoot," he whispered to himself, "and ef I can't save
all ther horses I'll try and git one fer ther gal ther doctor loves. Ef
ther watch had been good fer any thin' it wouldn't have happened, but
it is too late now."

Indeed it was. At that very instant the terrible war-whoop of the
Indians rung on every side, and almost countless dark forms skulked in
every direction toward one common center. Then all further attempts at
concealment were useless, and, with an answering shout, the scout arose
and dashed forward, determined--as he had said--to secure at least one
steed.

He reached the nearest, cut away the rope, struggled to get within
mounting distance, was dragged along in the mad race, nearly trampled
under foot, hurried into the tall grass, lifted from his feet and
thrown headlong into an ambush of his enemies. Then he was instantly
bound and left helpless until the battle was over.

The war-whoop had aroused those about the wagons to a sense of danger.
They crowded together like sheep when encircled by enemies--evidently
wanting a head. Like painted demons the villains crowded around the
doomed emigrants, dancing, leaping, shouting and making the most
frantic gestures, accompanied by a shower of arrows, that were answered
by the sharp ringing of rifles.

Then the savages rushed forward _en masse_, and the battle became
hand-to-hand. The massacre of men and helpless women and innocent
children followed, while the air rung with shrieks for mercy and the
groans of the dying as they were cut down, hewed by hatchets, pierced
by arrows, crushed by clubs, scalped and hurled into the plundered and
burning wagons, even before life was extinct.

An hour after, three wretched prisoners--all that survived of the band
of emigrants--were dragged along with ropes around their necks--tied
to the horses' tails of the exultant Indians--three only--Olive, the
doctor and the scout.

A forced march brought them to a village of the Indians, and the two
men were bound and thrown into a wigwam, while the girl was given into
the care of the squaws.

What a sudden and bitter awakening from dreams of safety and of love!




                             CHAPTER III.

                     WHAT HATE WILL MAKE A MAN DO.


Stung to the quick by the refusal of his love, and still more so by the
somewhat tyrannical conduct of the scout, seconded by the physician,
George Parsons suddenly determined upon a bitter revenge.

A frontier born and bred man, he had from childhood been brought in
association with the Indians, and knew their ways. Under pretense of
hunting, he deserted from the little band to whom he had sworn fealty,
and immediately sought for the enemies of the white man.

Fortune favored him. He came across an outlying spy--trailed his rifle,
and turning the open palms of his hands toward him, advanced. It was
a sort of freemason sign, well known to all the dwellers of the
prairies, and it was not long before he and the Indian reached the main
body of the savages, and he was soon seated in council with them.

But the Indians, crafty as treacherous, inquired deeply into the
motives that made a man thus turn against his own people, and give them
to the tomahawk and scalping-knife, or to torture.

"There is a girl among them whom I would make my wife," was the answer.

"Then why does the pale-face not take her?" questioned the chief.

"Because they are too many, and she will have nothing to do with
me--loves somebody else."

"Why, then, is not the scalp of the lover at the belt of the brave?"

"That's just what I want, but I have never had a fair chance. Then,
too, there is the guide of the party who has more than once insulted
me--a trapper who has been here before--knows every foot of the ground,
and I presume you know him."

"What sort of a man is the scout?"

Parsons described him minutely, and the Indians looked quickly from one
to the other, and though there was no intimation given in words, yet it
was evident that they both knew and feared him.

"How many of the pale-faces?"

Parsons enumerated them, and gave an inventory of the train and its
means of defense.

"Will the pale-face fight?"

"No. I don't owe any of them a grudge, except as I have told you, and
it wouldn't look well for me to be murdering my own people."

"Tell the red-man how the girl looks, that she may not fall by the
arrow or the knife."

He did as requested, and found himself forced to endure a searching
cross-questioning, for the Indians still feared treachery.

"If the tongue of the pale-face travels the short trail of truth,"
continued the chief, "he shall be as a brother to the red-man. But if
his talk twists as the path of the serpent, then he shall die the same
death of torture that he would give to his enemies."

"You will find every thing as I have said."

"Then it will be well. Let him give his weapons to the red-man."

"But I might want to use them."

"Until the braves return from the dogs of the pale-faces, he will be
taken care of--be a prisoner."

This was very much more than he had bargained for. But resistance would
have been useless, and with any thing but pleasant feelings he handed
over rifle, knife, and hatchet.

"I will go with you and show you the way," he said, seeking to gain
their favor.

"The red-man needs nothing but the stars to guide them at
midnight--nothing but the smoke of the pale-man's fire to tell them
where he lies hidden. Let the braves take him to the Medicine and tell
him to keep him safe until they return. If his words are true he has
nothing to fear. If not, he will learn what it is to be treacherous to
the red-man. The Sioux are great warriors and they laugh at the traps
of their enemies."

At a signal from the chief the arms of the white renegade were bound
behind his back, and accompanied by half a dozen stalwart braves, he
was led through and beyond the group of wigwams, out into the forest,
and when he questioned where they were going, the only answer he could
obtain was:

"To the Medicine."

A short journey and they reached a bluff by the side of a stream that
found its way through a rocky cañon. A low, peculiar whistle called
from a well-concealed opening the old trickster, who was supposed to
hold communion with the moon and stars, the dead, and the great Manitou.

"The great Medicine of the Sioux," said the leader of the party, "will
take care of the pale-face until the warriors return."

"It is well. Follow me."

Unable to resist, the already frightened man followed his appointed
keeper into the rocky cavern, and by his direction took a seat at
the extreme rear. And as his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the
darkness, saw that he was surrounded by every thing that was devilish
and horrible--by the bones and skulls and scalps of dead men--by bats
and owls--by a hideous living bear and a grinning, snarling, spitting
wildcat, that exerted all their monstrous strength to tear loose and
spring upon him.

"The pale-face will be safe here," said the Medicine, with an almost
fiendish smile. "No one will come to do him any harm while I am
gone. The air is strong with blood. I can smell it--the blood of the
miserable pale-face. I must go and prepare for the torture."

"For the sake of mercy do not leave me alone."

"These," pointing to the savage animals, "will keep you company. But
you shall be doubly guarded."

He disappeared for a few moments. Then returned with a handful of
brush with the green leaves still clinging to them. These he spread
across the cavern, then tore away a stone, and instantly a dozen great,
hideous, crawling, hissing rattlesnakes wriggled forth.

"Oh, God!" burst in accents of agony from the lips of the tortured
prisoner, as he sunk back to the uttermost limit that was possible.

"These will keep guard over you--see that no one enters and that you do
not go out," replied the Medicine, with a devilish grin.

The serpents coiled, twined, twisted, reared their heads, clashed
their scales, shook their rattles, darted out their forked tongues
and flashed their eyes, that looked like great balls of fire. And
momentarily he expected them to creep toward, to coil around, to sting
him to death!

"These," repeated the Medicine, "will be your guard."

"And when, in the name of heaven, will you come back?"

"Perhaps to-night--perhaps to-morrow. But, fear not, for you will be
safe as long as you remain quiet. If you attempt to escape, a dreadful
death will follow."

From the moment the reptiles had been set free, the Medicine had stood
at the door of the cavern, through which a little light came in. Now he
quickly retreated, shutting the entrance after him, and, more dead than
alive, George Parsons was left to the most horrid companionship that
the mind can think of. Every moment he expected would be his last, and
hours passed of sufficient misery to have driven him stark mad.

He knew not the serpents could not reach him--knew not that the subtle
power of the white-ash leaves the Medicine had scattered controlled the
serpents far more effectually than fire would have done.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                           THE TEST OF LOVE.


"Wal," was the characteristic exclamation of the scout, though in a
low, cautious whisper, as soon as they were alone, "ef this hain't er
finishin' er trail about as suddint as any thin' I ever heard tell on."

"And my poor Olive," groaned the physician. "If it were not for her I
could face death without a tremor."

"That hain't 'tall likely," was the reply. "Ther best on us can't do
that. I've tried it more'n once--hain't no coward--and I know. But
that isn't ther thing to be looked arter now, and thar hain't no use
mournin' till ther time comes, nuther. Yet I hope ter heaven ther
red-skins won't know me, fer it will go hard ef they do."

"Is there no way in which we can save the life of the poor girl?"
continued his companion, his thoughts being intent upon her and not
giving the slightest heed to what was being said.

"I don't know yet. Ther first thing ter be done is tew git ourselves
clear. Ther red devils have tied me fer sartin, and they'll have er
high old time ter-night."

"Do you think we shall be molested before morning?"

"It hain't likely, onless ther cussed whisky should drive them so mad
that ther elders can't control them. Then thar's no tellin' what mought
happen."

"And no one will come to visit us?"

"I reckon not. But it won't matter. Thar never war wolves in a tighter
trap."

"You are mistaken. See."

In a few minutes, by some juggling operation the scout had no idea of,
the doctor had entirely freed himself, and also released his companion,
and they could stretch their limbs at ease. Then they drew still nearer
together and the conversation was continued.

"When the whisky has done its work, do you think we can get away?"
asked the physician.

"That's mighty hard ter tell."

"And poor Olive, is there any hope for her?"

"I'm goin' ter see."

The scout laid his ear to the ground and remained silent for some time.
Then he gently raised one side of the curtains of the wigwam and crept
out into the darkness, and the doctor remained alone until the sun was
well up.

Then he was dragged forth to the council of braves!

But astonishment was painted upon the faces of all as they saw that his
hands were free, and that the scout had disappeared.

"Some traitor has done this!" thundered the chief. "What has become of
the other prisoner?"

"That is more than I can tell," responded the physician, who had
determined upon his line of conduct. "As to my being untied it was
done by spirits. Ask your great Medicine. He will tell you, for he is
familiar with them."

"The pale-face talks like a squaw!" sneered the chief.

"What says the great Medicine of the Sioux?"

At the command of the old trickster other ropes were brought. With
these he fettered the prisoner in the most complex manner, and he was
again thrust into the wigwam. Then wild and dismal groans were heard,
low whisperings and frantic laughter, and the physician stepped forth
free again, carrying his bonds in his hands!

Although far less superstitious than the majority, the chief was
nonplussed--knew not what to say. It was a thing that had never
occurred before, and he was at a loss how to act. But, something must
be done, and he drew the old Medicine aside and consulted with him.
The latter was pale with rage, not unmingled with fear. He had been
fairly beaten with his own weapons--fooled before all the tribe. Then
he thundered forth:

"Let the pale-face tell who was concealed within the wigwam and untied
his bonds, or his tongue shall be torn from his mouth and trampled
under foot."

"No one but spirits."

"Foo! Let my brothers go and look."

A number of Indians rushed to do his bidding, but returned with faces
that told of being baffled. No one was to be found.

"Did not the Medicine of the Sioux hear me talking to them?" questioned
the prisoner.

There was another whispered conversation, and then the Medicine
resumed: "I know how to unlock his lips and make him cease his lies,"
and he gave some command in a very low tone.

In an instant after, the doctor, strong man as he was, trembled, reeled
and groaned aloud. Dragged along between two of the most brutal-looking
warriors, with their hatchets whirling about her head and threatening
death in case of resistance, was the girl he loved!

"For Heaven's sake save me!" she screamed, as soon as she saw him, and
rushing forward threw her arms around his neck and fell almost fainting
upon his bosom.

"My life for yours--a thousand deaths of torture to save you a single
pang," he murmured, as he pressed her to his heart.

"Tear them apart," yelled the chief, and then turning to the Medicine
he asked under his breath, "Where is _your_ prisoner?"

"Safe in my cave."

"There let him stay until this trial is over. Then he must be released
and the girl given to him. I have so promised. Now to find out what we
wish to know."

The doctor and Olive were standing a little apart, her beautiful eyes
streaming with tears, and his face convulsed with anguish.

"You love this squaw," continued the chief, "and if you do not want to
see her tortured, tell us how you managed to escape."

"I have nothing to tell more than I have already done," he replied. "Oh
Olive, Olive!"

"Then let the squaw be prepared for death!"

In an instant she was surrounded by knives--walled in so that the
slightest movement would bring her soft, fair flesh against some sharp
point. Her lover trembled like one with the ague, then nerved himself
with a mighty effort, and returning the defiant looks around him,
answered:

"Is it well, great Medicine, that I should tell to other ears than your
own the secrets that are whispered by the dead?"

"The pale-face is a dog," commenced the old man, but before he could
finish the sentence, a voice was heard coming from the wigwam in which
the prisoner had been confined, forbidding that any thing should be
told.

Then it was the Medicine's turn to tremble. He looked at the
prisoner--at the wigwam--at the sky--at the earth; listened to the
waving of the trees and the low whistling of the wind through the
branches. But as the voice was not repeated, he, after a time, gathered
courage and said:

"It is nothing. Unless the pale-face confesses, let the torture of the
squaw go on."

"Oh, heaven!" shrieked the girl, "do you love me and condemn me to this
when a single word would save me?"

Every accent--every glance of her eyes went to his heart far more
keenly and deeper than a knife would have done, but if he failed in
a single point of what he had undertaken, the rest would fall to the
ground. So he kept back his own tears, choked down his grief, and
endeavored to inform the wretched girl, by signs, of his purpose.

Little time, however, was given him. Indeed, before reflection could
come, Olive was dragged along to where a fire-blackened post stood,
bound, and half a hundred pair of hands were busy piling bark and
kindling, and pitchy fagots around her.

His head fell upon his breast. He became as one
numbed--helpless--powerless. Then, again, the screams of the beautiful
sufferer rung upon his ears:

"Darling, I die for you. Oh, God, have mercy."

In an instant he had burst through trammel, piled in a heap those
who would have restrained him, seized a brand from the pile around
his loved one, beating back those who would have opposed, had Olive
again locked fast in his arms! Their lips met once--twice, and then
they were torn apart, and he fettered so that a single motion was an
impossibility.

"Let the hound of a pale-face untie himself now if he can," screamed
the old Medicine, frantic with rage, "and the squaw sing her
death-song."

"My trust is in God," replied Olive, turning her beautiful but pale
face heavenward. "Darling, I pray for you."

"Then let her call upon the Manitou of her people, and see if he will
come. He will not, and we will send her to him in ashes!"

The signal was given to fire the pile, and the warriors sprung forward,
torch in hand. Like demons let loose they danced around, and as the
lurid light flashed into the eyes of the poor girl, and the hot flames
touched her skin, she fainted--sunk limp and would have fallen, had it
not been for her bands. Her lover could not endure the sight, turned
his head, and as he was dragged away, saw the flames rising, and
believed the black smoke was wrapped like a shroud around his beautiful
one--that she had passed from earth in a pillar of fire!

It was just such an ending as the Indians desired; for, failing to
accomplish their purpose of forcing confession, they would have him
think her dead.




                              CHAPTER V.

                              TEMPTATION.


Unmanned, shaken to the very innermost part of his nature, and faint
both from the stench of the cavern and lack of food and water, the
wretched George Parsons waited the return of the Medicine until hope
gave way entirely to despair.

Then a light broke in upon him; he saw the old trickster enter, take
the poisonous serpents in his hands as if they had been sticks, toss
them back into their dens and close the opening, drive bear and wildcat
out of sight and advance toward him with a most sardonic smile.

"The pale-face has been well guarded," he said, as if his keepers had
been of the most pleasant kind.

"As I never wish to be again. God only knows what I have suffered. I
expected the snakes would crawl upon me and sting me to death--expected
that every moment would be my last."

"And so it would have been had I not charmed them. But come."

Never did a man get more quickly out of a hateful place. So great was
his anxiety to be beyond the horrors he had endured that it forced
a smile from even the grim lips of the Medicine, as he led him to a
wigwam, where he was treated as a welcome guest might have been.

Relieved from terror, and with his bodily wants supplied, the first
thought of the renegade was for the girl, her lover and the scout. The
latter he was told had fled like a coward, but swift-footed warriors
had started upon the trail and it was more than probable that his scalp
was even then hanging at their belts. The lover was in confinement and
would die by torture, and the girl he could see at any time.

That time with him was then!

The sufferings he had undergone, in place of softening his heart and
bringing pity, had made him still more revengeful, and when he was led
into her presence his face was as black as a thunder-cloud.

"Great Heaven!" she exclaimed, instantly surmising the part he had
played in the terrible drama, "you here--miserable traitor?"

"Leave us," he said to the Indians. "I would talk to her alone."

"As the pale-face wills. When he is tired of the squaw the red warriors
would talk to him also."

His request having been complied with, he hissed:

"Traitor? Better that you use soft words, my lady. Do you know that
both yourself and your lover are in my power?"

"But for the love of mercy do not let any harm come to him," and she
flung herself upon her knees and raised her clasped hands to him.

"His life is in your hands."

"And you will help me save it?"

"You can do so."

"How? Tell me how. I will do any thing--give my own for him."

"Let us then be friends."

"I have never felt otherwise toward you."

"Give me your hand."

She laid her little trembling fingers gently within his proffered palm,
and as he drew her nearer to him, he continued:

"Now a kiss, Olive."

"No, no," she murmured, drawing back.

"You are keeping them for your lover," he sneered. "Have you forgotten
that I told you his life was in your hands?"

"No, but--"

"Will you not give me a kiss?"

"If you are a man you would not ask me, knowing what you do."

"Ay, knowing what I do," he replied, bitterly, and fast losing control
of his temper. "This I do know, that you scorned my love and--"

"As God is my judge I was sorry to do so and--"

"As he is my judge you shall be sorry almost unto death that you ever
did. But a kiss I will have."

"Oh! heaven, are you a man or--"

"Beast?" he said, finishing the sentence for her, with a mocking laugh,
and he exerted his superior strength to draw her to him.

Her quickness baffled him. She tore loose, retreated as far as possible
and buried her face in her lap. But it was in vain she did so. He
lifted her up again--held her hands so that she was powerless, and
forcing her to look in his face, continued:

"You must and shall kiss me."

"Never!"

"It is the first move toward friendship."

"Then we shall never be friends."

"Then you are cold-hearted toward Mayo."

"Cold-hearted? God alone knows how I love him."

"And will not give even a kiss to keep him from suffering?"

"He would scorn me--would have a right to do so if I should
consent--did not battle for his honor as well as my own."

"But I love you just as well."

"It can not be. You have plotted my destruction."

"With love turned to hatred and vengeance for the moment, by black
despair, I might have sought to destroy. Now I would save all."

"Can you do so?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Yes--yes."

"Save him--him, as well as me?"

He knew that every word was a lie, but went recklessly on, determined
to carry his point, cost what it might.

"Yes. I can and will save you both--upon one condition--that you will
fly with me."

"Fly with you?" she repeated, slowly, and as if not fully
comprehending. "Fly with you?"

"And be my wife."

"Coward, traitor, fiend!" she exclaimed, struggling with almost
superhuman strength to get free from him. "Your wife? You, the betrayer
of your own race--the murderer of those who trusted you! A thousand
times would the grave be more welcome."

"But you shall, willing or unwilling. And thus I seal the compact."

He drew her still more closely to him and leaned down his face to kiss,
but, in the fierceness of her utter detestation, she struck him with
her little clenched hand upon his mouth until he could not restrain an
expression of pain.

Then, all of restraint was thrown aside, and standing forth in his true
colors, he was revealed before her with every black passion starting
from his face.

"Now, by heaven! you shall be mine, and, as for your lover, he shall
die with red-hot flames around him--die amid the most horrid of
tortures, and even while his screams for mercy are ringing in your
ears, I will clasp you to my heart and take a hundred kisses for every
one you refuse me now."

"Horror!"

"That will be no name for what he shall suffer, and all your tears
and prayers and sorrow shall be of no avail toward his release, but
his horrible groans be sweet music in my ears as well as those of the
Indians."

"Oh, God! spare him. Oh! why has Heaven abandoned him to one whose
heart is flint?"

"You have rightly named it, but you have made it so. It was as wax in
your hands, but you taunted, mocked, and repulsed me. As I loved, even
so can I hate."

"It shall not, must not be. I will appeal to the Indians themselves,"
she replied, wringing her hands in agony. "Even they must be less
brutal than you."

"I have bought you of them," he answered with a smile of gratified
malice. "You are mine, body and soul. Do you hear? body and soul! My
wife you have got to be, and if it will make your future more happy to
have your lover first burned at the stake, why, be it so. But remember
now, as you will have to do in the hereafter, that his life is in your
hands--that you send him to destruction when you might have saved him
even from pain."

"Oh, God! save him--pity me--guide me."

"Think well and decide."

The terrible words almost drove her to distraction. She remembered
with fearful minuteness how the great flames leaped, roared, danced,
circled, and was rapidly giving way, when his hand touched the naked
flesh of her shoulder and she instantly nerved herself, and with the
stony countenance of despair, answered:

"I have decided!"

"How?"

"That I will never be your wife."

"And let your lover perish in the flames?"

"Even that were better than to stain my soul, and I can meet him in
heaven, as pure as now."

"It will be long before you do so! I shall take care that you do not
have an opportunity to lay violent hands upon yourself," and happy
that the words would pierce her heart like a knife, "you will be a wife
without even the ceremony of marriage. Even the miserable apology the
Indians sometimes indulge in shall be denied you."

"Your wife I will never be."

"I swear that you shall."

"And I, before heaven and the holy angels, that I will not. I would
dash my brains out against a stone first."

"We will see whose oath is kept. Now I go to complete the means for
getting rid of your lover. Then I will come and woo you for the last
time."

She sunk upon her knees as he released her, and raised her hands on
high while her thoughts were breathed forth in the most agonizing
prayer. But even as she was doing this--even as he was unfastening the
curtains of the wigwam, an Indian warrior dashed up, waving a bloody
scalp.

"God! Heaven! Mercy!" burst from the lips of the heart-broken girl. "It
is that of--"

She could not finish the sentence, feeling that her lover had been
murdered, and fell senseless to the ground.

"It is that of the scout, thank God!" said Parsons, feeling sure that
the one he stood most in dread of was forever out of the way.




                              CHAPTER VI.

                               IN PERIL.


It was a terrible temptation to the scout when he crawled forth from
the wigwam, to endeavor to find some weapon and at once attempt to
inflict condign punishment upon the Indians, for the unprovoked murders
they had been engaged in. But the folly of the proceeding when their
numbers was taken into account, as well as the fact that the doctor and
the beautiful girl were at their mercy, restrained him.

And what next was to be done was very difficult to determine. But
the physician having thrown out a hint during their whispered
conversation, that, if he could secure his medicine-chest, he might be
able to work upon the superstition of the Indians, so as to make them
afraid of him, he at once took the back-track to make an investigation
concerning it.

But, the journey resulted in nothing, save that he gathered the mangled
bodies that had been left to the mercy of the wolves, scooped out a
rude grave, placed them within, covered it with earth and sod, leveled
and stamped it down, and dragging the remnants of the wagons together,
kindled a fire, that would keep away the animals and obliterate the
marks of what he had done.

Then he returned toward the encampment, and began spying around for
something that would be of advantage, and to learn where the girl was
concealed, and to take measures to steal her away, if such a thing
should prove to be possible.

Chance brought him to the vicinity of the cave of the Medicine, at the
very moment when he was releasing the traitor Parsons, and when the
twain had departed, he could not resist the temptation to explore the
bowels of the earth, and learn what it contained. But he very soon paid
the penalty of his folly, and death had laid his iron hand upon him.

Not being familiar with the locality, and the mysteries contained
within, he stumbled along in the darkness, came suddenly upon the
hissing, snarling wildcat, and as it sprung fiercely toward him, he
leaped to avoid it, and fell directly into the clutches of the huge
bear that had been watching him with open jaws and snapping eyes, and
was instantly imprisoned by its mighty arms!

Had he been possessed of any weapon, even a knife--the battle would
have been short and decisive. But he had nothing save his naked hands
to fight with, and it would have been madness to attempt such a thing,
for the brute was of monstrous size.

"Ef I don't play 'possum I'm a gone sucker," muttered the scout as he
relaxed his muscles, fell to the rocky floor, held his breath, and
remained motionless.

It was a difficult task, however, to remain so, for the bear was moving
him around, and its long sharp claws scratching his flesh, and any
instant his heart might be torn out. A very difficult task indeed,
and nothing but the frontier training and strong self-command of the
scout enabled him to counterfeit death. Yet he did so, until almost
exhausted, and then as a favorable opportunity presented itself, he
rolled swiftly away, and as soon as out of reach, grunted forth, as if
in answer to the astonished and angry brute:

"You hug most mighty clus, that am er fact. Er leetle too much so fer
friendship, and I rayther reckon once will do me fer er lifetime. No,
I shan't fergit yer--shall remember yer at least ontil I git short of
meat and want er roast or er steak."

A few moments given to rest, and he dodged between the watching
animals, and was about to pass out when the hissing of the snakes (that
had been aroused by the noise) caught his ear, and he stopped, listened
and gave vent to his surmises:

"Here's more deviltry. But the old humbug knows what he am erbout, and
keeps a supply of ash leaves on hand. Perhaps I'll come and see ye
ag'in, ladies and gentlemen," making a bow in the direction of the den,
"but I hain't got time now--have rayther pressin' business on hand."
And he went out and carefully closed the opening to the cave in the
same manner as he had found it.

And as he dared not venture near the wigwams until night came, he
crawled into a neighboring thicket through which the trail to a spring
passed, and covering himself with brush and leaves, waited very
anxiously for the darkness.

Very frequently the sound of voices reached his ears, and he learned
enough to satisfy him of the treachery of Parsons, and swore a deep
oath that the scoundrel should suffer for his villainy.

Satisfied that no actual harm had come to either of the prisoners, this
greatly relieved his mind, and gave him patience to wait until the hour
came when he could continue his scout.

It came at last, and fortunately the night was dark and stormy. Almost
with the going down of the sun the clouds had begun to gather, the wind
to blow and the rain to fall, and, knowing that the Indians would not
long remain from under shelter, he watched yet a little and then drew
more near.

An hour passed. Then some brute of an Indian, who had managed to
conceal a portion of the fire-water that had been taken from the wagons
of the emigrants, came staggering along and fell over him--saw him, and
drawing his knife attacked and at the same time endeavored to give the
alarm.

The situation of the scout became desperate. If the noise reached the
wigwams--if the warriors learned that a white man was skulking so
near, there would be no possibility of escape, and if he attempted to
strangle the Indian his knife would not be idle. Indeed, he had already
been slightly wounded.

But there was no time for thought. With a mighty blow he felled his
assailant to the earth, and before he could recover sprung upon him,
falling so that his knees struck full upon his breast and completely
taking away his breath. That accomplished, the rest was easy. He
immediately obtained possession of the knife that had been aimed
against his own life, buried it in the heart of the Indian, left it
sticking there, and, finding that he was quivering in death, coolly
turned him upon his face, arranged him so that it would appear as if
his life had been accidentally taken, and retreated to the opposite
side of the village.

The temptation was very strong to supply himself with weapons, but he
could only gratify it at the expense of the danger of detection, and
was forced to wait a better opportunity.

Driven by the storm, the Indians left the camp-fires early, save the
few who were detailed to watch the male prisoner--the female one being
secured by the attendance of squaws--so that, with the exception of
numerous dogs, the coast was clear, and the scout no longer hesitated
to enter the village, though his movements were of the most crafty kind.

Fortune was in his favor, for, even as he came near where the physician
was confined, the discovery of the dead Indian was made, and the guards
rushed thither--at least he fancied so--and was about to enter the
wigwam, when two of them, who had been concealed, sprung upon him, and
a desperate struggle ensued. And very hard would it have been for him
had he not been fertile in expedients. Shaking loose, he dodged between
the legs of the foremost and threw him like a bombshell into the face
of the other, darted to the nearest fire, caught a handful of blazing
brands, and whirled them, as he ran, into the wigwams, causing screams
and dismay, and forcing the majority to stop and put out the flames.

Still a few swift-footed ones followed; the race was rapid, and,
to the scout at least, over unknown ground. But on he dashed until
his progress was suddenly stopped. A wall of rock rose in his
path--the fierce cries of the savages were ringing in his ears like
a death-knell--there was not a single instant for delay. He gave one
swift glance and boldly leaped. At some distance below he had seen a
tree, and calculated to alight in its branches, trusting to luck for
what should follow. He did so, but luck was against him. The impetus
was too great--he whirled entirely over--caught his foot in the forks
and hung suspended between heaven and earth, without the possibility of
release.

The Indians flung over torches and saw his desperate situation--some
watched till the light, saw him still hanging there, and foul birds
fluttering around and picking at him--knew he was dead and carried the
good news to the village.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                          KNOWLEDGE IS POWER.


The old Medicine of the Sioux, when he came to reflect upon the manner
in which the prisoner had repeatedly untied himself, was mystified, and
though he determined to have no rival yet he believed he might learn
some things he could turn to account before the white man was put to
death by holding out false ideas of safety and life. To that end he had
the prisoner brought to his wigwam, and to his great joy he found his
chest there and uninjured.

"Is the pale-face a medicine?" asked the red one.

"A little," was the cautious reply.

"And the spirits taught him to untie ropes and set himself free?"

"Yes."

"Do they whisper other things in his ears?"

"Many."

"Will he tell them to his red brother?"

"They are the gift of the great Manitou, the same as in life."

"The life of the pale-face is in the hands of the Medicine of the
Sioux. One word from his lips, and death would follow--another and the
path would be open for him to return to his people. Which shall it be?
What would the pale-face give for freedom?"

"Very much."

"Will he teach the wonders that were whispered to him by the lips of
the departed and the unseen voices of the winds?"

"What he may he will tell."

"It is well. The ears of the red-man are open. He will drink in the
words as the dry ground the warm spring rains. Let the fetters be taken
from his tongue."

"First he must go and bring the skull of one who has long slumbered in
death. It is the only means by which the secrets of the grave and the
other world can be told."

"My brother, for he shall be as a brother to me, will wait?"

"As he now is, even so shall he be found."

With his greatest speed the old trickster departed, and returned after
the lapse of a few minutes with the desired article. But, long before,
the white man had opened the coveted chest and secured several small
bottles and other things about him--things valuable in chemistry and
scientific experiments, but far beyond the comprehension of the nomadic
children of the wilderness. Time also had been given him to somewhat
arrange the plan he intended to follow, and when the Indian entered
with the grinning skull, he held it for a few moments, then placed it
at the further end of the wigwam, and drew the curtains so as to secure
almost total darkness.

"Now," he continued, "let the Medicine of the Sioux look and ask what
he would know."

The Indian turned his eyes upon the skull and shrunk back with a groan
of horror and intense alarm--shrunk back, and had not the white man
held him, would have fled shrieking, for never had his superstitious
mind dreamed of any thing one half as horrible.

Around the fleshless lips--from the long, yellow, rattling teeth--from
the cavernous sockets of the eyes--dropping from the threads of hair
that still clung to the moldering bone, pale blue flames appeared to
creep and dance and drip, and sulphurous fumes to fill the air! And
even as he gazed in terror, out from the hollow skull resounded the
words in echo to those of the white man:

"Let the Medicine speak."

The result would have been just the same if a stone had been commanded
to give utterance to words, for the trickster was beaten, awed,
incapable of either motion or sound. He could not do any thing more
than gasp.

The affrighted victim motioned to his companion to do so for him, and
the physician asked:

"What would the dead?"

"In the dark caverns of the earth where the worm crawls, and the
spotted toad breeds, where bones molder, and the scaly serpent distills
poison--in the far-away country of souls the wish of the red-man was
heard, and we have come at his bidding. Let him answer!" came in still
more startling tones from within the flaming skull.

"You must answer," whispered the doctor. "Must ask what you wish to
know."

Still the old man was dumb--sat with open mouth and staring eyes,
shivering in every limb and vainly endeavoring to command himself.

"Will you not speak?" questioned the voice. "Then pale-face come
hither."

Obey the red-man could not, and the white one stepped forward, raised
the skull, and after holding it for a moment, held it toward the
Medicine, who saw that the unnatural light had faded away, but reeled
back again as from the fleshless lips came the words:

"Coward, you have lost the opportunity to learn wisdom. Take me back
and bury me. Never again will I come at your bidding. But remember
this, and if you dare to disobey me I will come in the red forked
lightning and earth-rocking thunder--remember, the pale-face must be
free."

The Medicine bowed his head, took with trembling hands the ghastly
skull that was held toward him, and with all possible speed restored it
to the earth. But as soon as relieved from what he believed to be great
danger, the humiliation he had passed through in the presence of the
prisoner awoke all his enmity against him, and stopping upon his way he
urged the chiefs to immediately put him to torture.

To that they were more than willing, and as the doctor issued from
the wigwam where he had been amusing himself at the expense of the
old Medicine, he was seized, dragged forward and bound to a post of
torture. But he had no intention to give up life without a struggle,
and the articles he had taken from his chest having prepared him in a
great measure, he believed he could so awe them that no one would dare
to lay violent hands upon him, or at least so lengthen the time that
the scout would be able to come to his relief and eventually save him.

Acting upon this plan he watched his opportunity, and, with little
difficulty, loosened his bonds so that he could throw them off at any
time, and waited until the fagots were piled around him ready for
the lighting. And, even as the grim old Medicine gave orders for the
consummation of his wishes, the same voice that he had heard in the
wigwam came once more to his ears as if from the bowels of the earth,
and made him tremble again.

"Has the Medicine of the Sioux forgotten," it said, "that I commanded
him to let the prisoner go free?"

"Such is my orders," replied the red liar, shrinking back out of the
circle, though secretly motioning that the torture should continue.

"Then why is it not done?" questioned the voice, and its deep tones
startled even the most hardy of the warriors, while the squaws fled
screaming away.

"Ask of the chiefs. I--I have nothing to do with it."

"Beware! If any harm should come to him, my wrath would fall upon you
as it never has done before."

There was a brief council, and then the great war-chief of the nation
took command, and having heard a garbled story from the Medicine of
what had transpired, and seeing nothing in it to excite particular
terror, especially as the old humbug had intimated that the voice was
his own work, he stepped forward, and striking his broad hand upon his
breast in defiance, exclaimed:

"The great Manitou is ever the friend of the red-man, and when a
pale-face dies his laughter can be heard shaking the hills. It is no
good spirit that would have him go free, but an evil one that wishes
harm to the Sioux."

The speech was received with applause, and those who had trembled saw
in it a solution of the difficulty and became tenfold as anxious for
the torture to begin. But, before the fiendish work could be commenced,
the voice was heard again in contradiction:

"The words of the chief are false. His tongue is traveling a crooked
trail. It is the good spirit--the friend of the nation that speaks.
He would save them from lightning and tempest, the ice and snow, from
famine and the black death."

"Then he can save the pale-face as well!" was the sneering reply.

"He can."

"Let him release him."

"It is done!"

"And save him from fire?"

"Fire can not harm him."

"That shall be seen."

A dozen brands were hauled into the pile that had been cast around the
prisoner, but, before the inflammable material could ignite, he kicked
them aside and walked forth unharmed!

"What said the Great Spirit?" he asked of the wondering savages. "Was
it not that no bands could ever fetter him?"

"But," grunted the chief, "fire would have burned had he not got out of
the way."

"No more than ice would have done. See!"

He stepped back to where the flames were now burning rapidly, picked
up the most intense coals, held them in his naked hands until they
went out, and then procured others and tossed them into his mouth, and
chewed them down with as much ease as if they had been pleasant food.

"What do you think now?" he asked.

What could they think? They knew that fire sorely burned their
own flesh, and why should it not his? Still they urged each other
on--whispered of trickery, and relying upon the supposed supernatural
power of the Medicine, demanded that he should exercise his
enchantments, and try if he could not light a fire that would burn the
white devil, as it was beginning to be believed he in reality was.

"Will the Medicine dare disobey my commands?" thundered the mysterious
voice.

He most certainly would not, had he not been so well backed up and
literally driven forward, and was about to raise a burning brand to
hurl into the face of the prisoner, when he stepped directly in front
of him and asked:

"Will the great Medicine of the red-man show me the arm he would dare
to raise contrary to the will of the Manitou?"

Scarcely knowing what he did, the wrinkled, skinny arm was thrust out,
and the prisoner looked at it attentively--made a few mysterious passes
over it and retreated. But even as he did so, the awful voice, coming
from whence no one could tell, was heard yet again:

"Now let him light a fire around the pale-face, if he can."

That was impossible. The hitherto supple arm, that had ever worked the
diabolical will of the owner, was completely paralyzed--had become as
iron. He had no more power to bend it than if it belonged to another
man thousands of miles away. And thus he stood until the pale-faced man
took pity upon him, released him, and hoped he had made a friend.

Though this was not the case--never could be--yet he had completely
subdued him, and the warriors gathered in groups, wondering what kind
of a man this could be who handled living fire as if it had been cold
clay. And very long would have been their council had not the renegade
Parsons obtained means to summon the chief privately to him, and
explain, as far as he was able, the mysteries that had transpired--that
such things were not uncommon among the white men--that he had seen
many do the same--that he was simply cheating them--had no more power
than any other man, and that the voice they had heard was not that of
any spirit, but simply a gift of nature that enabled him to disguise
his own, so that it sounded as if coming from a distance.

But if fire would not harm him, what would? To what torture could they
put him that would be equal to it, and how could they secure him beyond
the possibility of escape, when he could untie knots as rapidly as they
fastened them?

The renegade, prompted by his master, the devil, was equal to the
occasion--soon settled the difficulty, and the prisoner was led--driven
on by sharp knives and spears to a distance from the village into a
deep valley, whose huge walls of rock arose abruptly upon either side.

It was a dismal place as could be conceived--enough to make a man
shudder of itself, but the physician did still more so when he saw a
man swinging between heaven and earth, suspended by one foot, head
downward, with hundreds of foul birds pecking at and no doubt tearing
his eyes out.

"Thus perish the enemies of the Sioux," said the old Medicine,
triumphantly.

"Great heaven! is it--can it be the scout?" gasped the prisoner, who
knew far better than any one not of his profession, how the blood would
settle into the head and a most slow and horrible death follow.

"It is the dog of a pale-face!" was the savage response. "He thought
to escape from the red-man, but the great Manitou brought swift
destruction."

"May the fall have instantly deprived him of life!"

It was the only and best wish the prisoner could breathe for one in so
desperate a situation, but to increase his mental agony and without
knowing any thing of the matter, the Medicine replied:

"While he was yet alive, he was devoured piecemeal by buzzards and
crows--is yet alive, see."

The prisoner strained his eyes and was certain he could see the arms
uplifted as of one struggling in pain, and it made his very flesh creep
to think of such a death. But the Medicine quickly recalled him to a
sense of his own situation by saying:

"The torture of the pale-face will be no better. He will wish for death
for hours and days before it comes--will not even have carrion birds to
help bring it, and though wolves will howl around and serpents hiss,
they will not come near enough to destroy, beg as he may the Manitou
for them to do so."

But there was a single morsel of comfort--a single ray of sunshine amid
all the darkness. His darling Olive was spared the pain of knowing his
fate. Her sufferings, heaven be thanked, were ended. She could never be
tortured more, in mind or body, and would be standing a bright-winged
angel, to welcome him to the shining shore.

But the last drop of agony was quickly distilled into his cup of
life. Dragged along still deeper into the noisome valley, a cavern
was reached, and even as he was about to enter it he saw the renegade
seated at a little distance holding his loved one in his arms and
forcing her to submit to his hateful caresses.

To mourn her as dead would have been heaven when compared to this,
and the fancied torture of hell could not, he believed, be more an
incarnation of suffering. The cries of the wretched girl came to his
ears, mingled with the hoarse, triumphant laugh of the renegade, and
he struggled like a mad-man to get free--struggled until the leathern
thongs cut deeply into his flesh and the blood started from beneath
them.

But it was useless. His every effort was pleasure to the savages--his
curses music to their ears. Yet, regardless of what terrors were in
store for him, he shouted forth his never-dying love as he was hurried
into the cavern and flung rudely upon the stone floor a helpless
prisoner, and yet comparatively at liberty to what he soon would be.

The heart-wrecked girl had fainted. The swift-coming death of her
lover, and the horror of her own fate, was far too much. But with
fiendish malice, the black-hearted white man carried her along until
he stood by the side of the prisoner, and kissing the pure, pale
lips--contaminating them with his touch, hurled into the shrinking ears:

"Your wife, that was to be, will now be mine! May the thought of it
make your dying moments supremely happy. Ha! ha! how very happy! Think
of her as being mine alone while lying here in the darkness and slowly
starving--dying of thirst, with cool water trickling down within reach
of your hand, and yet unable to get a single drop. Oh! how I envy you
the pleasure!"

"Devil!" burst from the lips of the physician, and then, as if sorry
that he had been betrayed into saying even that much, he resolutely
closed them, and nothing could induce him to open them again.

It was in vain the brute taunted him both by words and actions. The
blood surged from his heart as if it would burst through every vein,
and it would have been mercy had it done so, and at once put an end
to his unequaled suffering. But for an hour he was forced to endure.
Then the Indians became impatient, and, dropping the girl heavily, the
renegade assisted them in placing the fettered form of the prisoner and
piling stones around and upon him, so as to prevent movement.

Then the entrance was walled up with massive rocks, and the prisoner
left to darkness and the slow, accumulated, never-surpassed horrors of
hunger and thirst!




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                              MUCK-A-KEE.


Much as all had appeared to give way to the white man, in the
possession of his destined bride, yet there was at least one of the
red-men who looked upon him with angry eyes and her with loving ones,
and who was determined that she should fill his wigwam and minister to
his comfort.

Muck-a-kee, or the Bull-frog--a brave of the most undoubted courage and
cunning, but brutally savage disposition, had been inflamed with her
rare beauty from the moment his eyes had rested upon her, and he had
marked her for his own. But he was too wise to assert his preference as
long as the white man was held in so much favor.

With envious eyes he had marked the scene in the cavern, and with
envious ears had heard that, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered,
she would be given to his rival. This he swore by the Manitou should
never be done.

To accomplish his ends, he enlisted the old squaws who had guard over
her by means of presents, and the very night she was to have been made
a wife, the girl was missing, and not a soul could be found who could,
or would, give the slightest information concerning it.

The guardian squaws declared that it must have been the work of
spirits--that even while their eyes were fastened upon her they heard
a terrible voice calling her by name, and that she melted away into
air--passed through their fingers like smoke when they attempted to
hold her, and that then they were struck down and blinded as if by
lightning.

The rabble believed the story--the chiefs cared nothing about her so
long as she was not destined to torture--the Medicine was trying to
recover his lost ground, and in fact no one but Parsons appeared to
take the slightest interest in her fate. He was angry without measure,
and did every thing in his power to find some clue to her whereabouts,
for he knew she could only have been taken away by mortal hands. But he
searched in vain. She was as securely hidden from him as if already in
her grave and her fair form ashes.

The abductor had been crafty. There was no impress of her little foot
upon the ground--nothing by which she could be traced. And as it had
been in fact, even so had she been led to believe the purpose. Taking
the place of and disguised as one of the squaws, the Indian had filled
her half-distracted brain with lies--made her believe that he was
the friend of the white man--intended to release her lover, and that
he wished her to come and meet him. At another time she might have
doubted. But now any thing that promised to free her from Parsons was
eagerly snatched at, and the wily warrior carried his end with far less
difficulty than he had imagined, and while the village was locked in
slumber Olive stole out like a shadow, met him beyond the limits of the
wigwams, submitted to be lifted in his brawny arms and carried along
the bed of a creek, whose water obliterated every trace, then mounted,
he riding behind, and borne swiftly to a considerable distance--where
she knew not--scarcely cared, so long as it was beyond the power of the
black-souled renegade.

Before daylight they had reached the top of a mountain and found a
newly erected wigwam, with another standing near that showed the marks
of many a storm. The former was to be her home for a time, and she saw
that it had been fitted up with some effort at comfort, for it was
covered with double skins and carpeted with them.

"This," said the warrior, craftily playing the part of friend and
taking every possible means to gain her good-will, "is your resting
place. Here you will be in the most perfect safety."

"But alone! Alone in this horrible wilderness," she gasped, trembling
in every limb at the bare thought of what dangers would surround her.

"No. In the other wigwam is an old squaw who will protect and provide
for you. She is very old and crippled, and sometimes not in her right
mind."

"A mad-woman my sole companion!"

"She is perfectly harmless."

"And him I love?" she questioned, with her entire soul going out to the
physician in his living tomb.

"Is safe, and shall soon be relieved."

"How well you talk my language."

"Muck-a-kee has been often among them, and is their friend. He will
save the pale-face."

"And give him back unharmed to me? Oh! joy, joy!"

The face of the Indian darkened for a moment, and his hand sought his
knife, but he had too much self-command to permit her to fathom his
designs, and after turning away as if to look out, he continued:

"The heart of Muck-a-kee will be glad when the White Lily is again in
the arms of the brave she loves. Her skin is as the dawn of a summer
morning, her hair soft as the silk of the maize, and her eyes like the
stars shining in the still water."

"And," resumed the girl, without taking the least notice of his
compliments, "there will be no danger in our being followed and
discovered?"

"By the one of her own race, whose heart is like that of the black
snake?"

"Yes."

"When he can follow the trail of the swift-winged swallow, then he can
find ours."

"That is good news. When shall he who is confined in the rocks be
released?"

"As soon as the red warrior can do so without being detected. But the
White Lily need not mourn. No danger can come to him, and it will be
many hours before he will even suffer hunger. Let her rest in peace,
and no tears stain her bright eyes."

"You are very good. How shall I ever repay you?" and she pressed his
hand warmly, and looked up thankfully into his eyes.

The action still more fired his blood, and it was with the greatest
difficulty that he could resist the temptation to clasp her in his
arms. But the time was not yet ripe for such an action, and forced to
resist he turned away and called in a loud voice:

"Metiz."

After waiting for a few moments he repeated the name even yet more
boisterously, and at the same time explained to the anxious girl that
"Metiz" in the language of the pale-face was "Thin Stick," but that
when she had occasion to address the squaw who was to guard her, she
had better use the Sioux word.

Still the old woman came not, and after repeated efforts to summon her
he went out grumbling--returning dragging her along, and it required a
great effort for Olive to keep from screaming, so hideous was she.

How old she was no one could have determined within a score of years.
Her yet plentiful hair was white as snow, as were brows and lashes,
and the long growth upon the upper lip, but her eyes were black and
sparkling as anthracite--looked more like the serpent's when in its
deadly coil than any thing human.

She had once been tall, but her form was now nearly doubled by years
and pain, though when aroused she could rise to her full hight, and
her broad shoulders and large arms told of power. Her face was a mass
of wrinkles. Her hands were long and the untrimmed nails gave them the
appearance of the talons of some great bird. Her figure appeared to be
entirely wanting flesh--to be simply a compound of skin, muscles and
bones, and as she crept into the wigwam, leaning upon a huge knotted
staff, her fierce manner and coarse voice and restless behavior gave
her the appearance of a wild beast.

"Metiz," said the chief, "this is the girl you must guard and feed
until I come back."

"Ugh!" was the only reply, but the fiery eyes that were turned upon
Olive made her shudder.

"You must take good care of her, do you hear, and you shall have plenty
of fire-water and tobacco."

"Ugh!"

She turned away and retreated again to her own wigwam, muttering as she
went.

"For the love of heaven do not leave me alone with her," pleaded the
girl.

"I will come back--"

"And bring him I love?"

"Yes, as soon as I can. But have no fear; she will do you no harm. She
is old and ugly but not dangerous in the least. I must go to see that
no one has found our trail."

"And if the black-hearted white man should do so?"

"This!" said the Indian, touching his knife in a manner that could not
be misunderstood.

"And the one in the cave? Oh! release him quickly and I will never
cease to love you."

"Your lover shall come!"

His reply was peculiarly accented, and could she have read his face,
her heart would have sunk within her as deeply as it had ever done
before. But it was expressionless to her eyes, and after informing her
that he would give the red squaw still stronger directions to keep
watch over and be kind to her, he disappeared, leaving her alone with
her thoughts.

Soon after she saw him mount and ride down the mountain side, and
feeling worn out and in a measure at least safe, she closed the
curtains of the wigwam, and nestling among the soft robes, fell asleep.

But what awoke her she could never have told. It was the mysterious
influence that often gives warning of coming danger. But awake she did,
and that suddenly, and a scream burst from her lips as she saw the old
squaw kneeling by her side, with her face bent closely down to her own.

"Oh! heaven, what do you want?" Olive asked, shivering with undefined
alarm.

"The sun is seeking to hide itself behind the western mountains, and
the young squaw of the pale-faces must be hungry. Metiz has brought her
food and drink."

She saw that the eyes of the hideous Indian woman were upon her, and,
fearing to make her angry, she arose, and by dint of a mighty exertion
of will managed to eat.

"When the squaw has lived until every thing upon earth has been dead
many, many winters she will not be so dainty," resumed her guardian,
with a sneering voice, and instantly dispatched the rest of the
provisions very much after the manner of a starving wolf.

"But I was not very hungry," replied Olive. "It was good, very good,
and I thank you. Now I will go and take a walk."

"Where would the pale-face go?" was questioned in any thing but a
pleasant voice.

"Oh! just to walk around a little. I am tired of being shut up in a
wigwam."

"The grave is more narrow and dark."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Olive, beginning to fear again.

"If she walks far she may find out."

"Who would do me harm?"

"The woods are filled with great bears, with snarling wolves, with
panthers, and almost every rock is a den of rattlesnakes."

"Good heaven! Yet you live among them?"

"I fear them not--fear nothing--am strong and know how to take care of
myself. The pale-face is weak as a little pappoose."

"Will you not go with me?"

"What if I should? Your feet are swift as those of a doe, mine heavy,
as if my moccasins were lead. The chief gave her into the keeping of
Metiz, and she must stay in the wigwam."

"Must?"

"Ugh."

"Do you mean that I am a prisoner?"

"Until the chief comes back."

"He brought me here to save me for--"

"Himself."

"Oh! heaven, tell me what you mean."

"He will make her his wife--will take her to his wigwam."

"Can it be possible there is such treachery? He told me he was my
friend--the friend of the white man."

"Then he lied!" she hissed like an adder. "Lied like the serpent that
charms the little sparrow, while guarding its young."

"But you are a woman and can save me," and she flung herself at her
feet.

"Woman?" screamed the squaw with a horrible laugh that made the rocks
ring. "Metiz a woman! She is a devil, and all the tribe fear her. When
you have seen every thing you love--father, mother, sisters, brothers,
and husband and children murdered by the pale-face; when your hair has
been turned, and you have lived in a howling wilderness alone, for the
Manitou only knows how many winters, what will you be then? No, the
chief lied! He hates the pale-face, even as I do. But talk not to me of
them--let me get out of your sight, or I might be tempted to drive a
knife into your heart, even as your people did through those of mine,"
and she fled muttering the wildest imprecations.

Then the full horror of her situation burst upon the mind of the poor
girl, and bowing her head, she wept bitter tears.

But should she wait the return of the brutal Indian? Was not any
fate better than to be his wife? She had seen enough to know, in all
its brutality, what it meant with one of their own race, and knew it
would be infinitely worse with her. Yes, she would run away, and that
quickly, forgetting what she had heard about the woods being filled
with wild beasts.

She crept to the door of the wigwam and looked out--could see nothing
of the fiendish old woman, and stepped to the outer side. But she had
hardly passed the threshold before her grim guardian presented herself,
and whirling her tomahawk, demanded her purpose.

"I was simply taking the fresh air," replied Olive, to throw her off
her guard.

"Then let her lift the skins of the wigwam. To walk from it, will be to
walk into her grave."

It would have been useless to attempt to either resist or argue, and
the fair prisoner sauntered back, baffled for the time, but without
having her purpose changed in the least. She would wait until night
came, and then make another effort for freedom, even if she died
in doing it. But could she escape she might release her lover, and
together they could fly to safety and happiness.

The hours passed--how long and bitter to her, and night came at length.
She lay upon the floor of the wigwam with the curtain slightly raised,
peering out at the other, and listening, as she had never done before,
to every sound. At length she became convinced that the dreadful old
crone had gone to rest, and wrapping her garments closely around her,
she stepped forth to the long coveted freedom--the blessed boon she had
never had the least idea of before. Her heart beat with lightning-like
rapidity--she seemed to tread upon air! Then a heavy hand was laid upon
her, she was hurled backward, and a croaking, angry voice breathed in
her ears:

"The pale-face squaw would run away, and must die!"

"Mercy."

"Did her race show any mercy to mine? Did they spare a single one? My
brain is mad with blood. Every thing is red--red!"

Poor Olive! She saw in the semi-light, the flash of a long knife, the
gleaming of the terrible eyes, burning with madness--saw the long,
skinny arm that was raised to give strength to the blow--exerted all
her own. With the power of despair she struggled to her feet, and
grappled with the murderess. They fell together. An iron grasp was
fastened upon her slender throat, and she knew her last hour had
come. But with a mighty effort she tore loose, and disappeared in the
darkness down the steep mountain side--fled she knew not whither, with
many an arrow whistling over her head.

And soon she would have paused for rest, for she had often fallen and
was sorely bruised, had she not fancied that she heard the tread
of a swiftly-ridden horse, and believed the false-hearted Indian
was upon her track, or at least soon would be. Nerved by this, she
pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the fastness of the forest,
tumbling over rocks, tearing her dress and soft flesh upon the sharp
thorns, creeping among the tangled roots, with the face scratched by
the low-growing branches, and her feet cut, and numbed, and bleeding.
Onward till she could do no more, and sunk down as if ready to die.

A low but startling growl aroused her. She looked wildly around, and
saw, to her horror, the form of some beast crouching upon a limb above
her, ready for its spring--saw the great mouth, the long, sharp teeth,
the blood-red tongue, the eyes like balls of fire--knew that a panther
had trailed her--would instantly leap upon and tear her to pieces, and
with a great cry of agony fell insensible to the ground.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                           I-RON-YAH-TEK-HA


"It beats human natur', Burning Cloud," said Wash Lawton, the scout,
as he lay concealed in a deep crevice of the rocks, craftily covered
by bushes and dirt and stones so as to resemble the natural surface
of the hill, and at but a little distance from the spot where he had
fallen--"it beats human natur' how yer could hev got me out of ther
scrape, and it war jest the tightest I war ever in durin' all my days."

"The daughter of the red-man," replied the Indian girl, who was his
companion, "has never forgotten his kindness when his pale-faced
brother--but not in heart, for one is white as the snow, and the other
as black and treacherous as a thunder-cloud--would have buried his
tomahawk in her head, and she with one arm broken and useless."

"It was er mean, cowardly trick, that am er fact, but I hain't half as
well able to pertect myself as you war. I feel jest as ef I had been
run through er boom full of logs in er spring freshet, and as ef every
drop of blood in my carcass had settled inter my brains."

And so indeed he looked. His eyes were still so much bloodshot that the
iris could not be distinguished, while the skin of his face was swollen
as if blood had been forced through every pore, despite the constant
bathing with cool water by the gentle hands of his savior and nurse.

"The pale-face would soon have gone to the land of spirits," she
continued, "had he not been released."

"But how did yer manage it? Sartinly yer could never have climbed down
ther face of ther rocks."

"A bird could scarcely have found footing."

"Then how in ther name of common sense did yer do it?"

"I-ron-yah-tek-ha (using her uncouth Indian name, though the scout
always did the interpretation of "Burning Cloud," or more commonly,
"Cloud,") was watching the pale-face who had been kind to her--followed
as he ran--saw him when he fell, and as soon as the braves disappeared,
she made a strong line of deer-skin, looped it about a tree above,
clambered down and drew it after her."

"It was bravely done, Cloud--bravely done."

"Then she fastened him so that he would not fall, cut away the limb
that held him like a wolf in a trap, lowered him down and dragged him
to this spot, thanking the Manitou that he was not dead."

"But most mighty near to it, I kin tell yer. And I must have had a hard
time on it, fer my huntin'-shirt and leggins am clean tore off."

"They are hanging still in the tree-top," replied the squaw, with a low
and musical laugh.

"Hangin' in the tree-top! What in thunder am they thar fer, I'd like
ter know?"

"The eyes of the red-man are like those of the lynx, and his cunning
that of the serpent."

"Oho!" and the laugh that followed, even though the ever-cautious one
of a trapper, made him fairly groan with pain, so sore was he in every
muscle. "Ha! ha! I see it all now. Yer knew ef yer didn't fool 'em in
that manner, they would bin erlookin' eround ter see what had become of
me, fer it wasn't likely I'd rot and fall ter pieces so soon."

The girl nodded, and the smile upon her face, in connection with her
kindness, made her very beautiful, and he continued:

"So yer jest took ther buck-skins and stuffed them and fixed on ther
cap and hung them up, and it was so fa'r that even ther sharp eyes of
ther warriors couldn't tell whether it was er dead man or not."

"And snared a rabbit and placed it where the head of the pale-face
should have been."

"What in thunderation was that fer?"

The rest he could see through plainly, but that troubled him--was a
puzzle he could not understand, experienced as he was in all manner of
woodland subterfuges.

"That the birds would gather around and pick at it."

"As they would have done at my poor head and eyes ef they had bin thar!
Give me a woman fer cunnin, arter all!" and he rolled backward and
forward over the soft, thick bed she had prepared, in the excess of his
merriment at the manner in which the crafty warriors had been deceived.

"The red-men knew well what would follow if the pale-face had
remained," she answered, with a gratified look at his praises,
and proceeded to describe more at length the difficulties she had
encountered.

"Yes, yer must have had a hard time on it gittin' me heah. I ain't none
of ther lightest or you none ther strongest, and you couldn't well have
carried me."

"The daughter of the red-man raised the body in her arms, and though
his moccasins left a trail she easily covered it up."

"And yer took all this trouble jest because I happened tew do what any
good man would have done?"

"The Sioux never forget."

If he had not been so entirely intent upon his own thoughts and the
skill she had displayed, he would have noticed her softly-beaming eyes,
and that the hot blood surged up from her heart and flushed even the
olive of her cheeks--that his stalwart frame and kindness had wakened
the most powerful passion in her heart, notwithstanding,

                "She had struggled hard and long
    Against her love, and reasoned with her heart,
    As simple Indian maiden might."

But he was not yet in a situation--was far too much shaken to give a
single thought to any thing but himself and his wonderful escape, and
went recklessly on.

"I know, Cloud, yer people remember er good deed as well as er bad one,
and never forgit revenge, and I only hope I kin make it even with yer
some time, and I will ef I live."

"The pale-face is safe from the dark Manitou of death."

"Yes, for the present, I reckon, though I wouldn't be good fer much in
a foot-race or a fight."

"There are barks and roots in the forest that will make him well again."

"The sooner the better."

"I will go gather and steep them, for I dare not build a fire here."

"Yer right, Cloud. Thar'll be sharp eyes on ther valley fer er long
time and any thin' out of ther common would draw er crowd of warriors.
But will yer not be in danger yerself?"

"I would do much more for the pale chief," she replied, in a trembling
voice, and quickly left his side that her feelings might not betray her.

The time she was away appeared very long to the scout, and when she
returned he saw from her agitated manner that something uncommon had
happened, and taking her hand kindly, he asked, with far more of
tenderness than he was aware of:

"What's ther matter, Cloud? Has anybody bin erbusin' yer? Ef so, jest
tell me and when I git on my feet ag'in I'll thresh ther ground with
him."

"A young brave--"

"Ha! er lover!" he interrupted, and the sound of the word though
uttered by his own lips grated harshly upon his ears.

"A young brave sought her side as the buck does that of the doe and
would have remained there."

"Then yer drove him erway, Cloud?"

"Had it not been for the pale chief I would have done so forever."

"What had I tew do with it?"

"If I had made him an enemy he might have followed and found you."

"That's jest as true as gospil and I hain't in no condition tew take my
own part ner yours nuther, jest now."

"I wear a knife."

"Yes, and hain't got no use of but one arm. But what did ther painted
raskil want?"

She busied herself with bathing his swollen neck, kept her face bowed
and pretended not to hear, and he continued:

"War he er lover, Cloud?"

"He has often told me he loved me," she responded in a low voice, being
thus compelled to answer.

"And don't yer love him? Ef he am er likely young feller, and will git
ter be er warrior some day, I don't see why you shouldn't do so."

"She loves but one."

"Wal," he replied, with a laugh, and not even then penetrating through
her disguise, "I never knew er woman ter take er likin' ter two men at
the same time."

"Let the pale-face drink and try to sleep," she said. "The child of the
red-man will stay and watch him as long as she dares. Then she will
pray the Great Spirit to keep guard over him until she comes and brings
him food in the morning."

"Yes. I do feel kinder sleepy, but I know I hain't more'n half thanked
yer fer what yer've done. Howsomever I will do so when I get better.
But can't yer git me er drink of cool water fust? I'm dry as er stump
that has been dead for forty years."

"The spring is not distant," she replied, going quickly to comply with
the request.

"I can't understand the actions of ther red-skinned critter at all,"
he muttered to himself under his breath. "She am ther pootiest squaw I
ever sot my eyes on, and has saved my life and bin very good ter me.
I wonder ef she kin have taken er fancy ter me? Here she comes ergin,
and ef I hain't er fool, I'll find out what it all means, and ef she
would consent ter take pot-luck with er poor trapper like me, I shan't
be backward, fer ter tell ther truth I never saw er woman I sot so much
store by."

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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    88--The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
    89--The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
    90--The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
    91--Star-Face, the Slayer.
    92--The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
    93--The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
    94--Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
    95--The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
    96--The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
    97--The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    98--Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    99--Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
    100--Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
    101--Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    102--Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
    103--The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
    104--Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
    105--Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
    106--The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    107--Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
    108--The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    109--The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    110--Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
    111--The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.
    112--The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
    113--Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
    114--The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
    115--The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
    116--Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    117--Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
    118--Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
    119--Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger.
    120--Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    121--Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
    122--Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
    123--The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
    124--Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
    125--The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.
    126--Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
    127--Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
    128--Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.
    129--The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
    130--Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.
    131--Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    132--Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    133--The Lost Cache. J. Stanley Henderson.
    134--The Cannibal Chief. Paul J. Prescott.
    135--Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    136--Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
    137--Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    138--Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
    139--The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
    140--The Border Renegade. By Badger.
    141--The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
    142--Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
    143--Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    144--The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
    145--The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    146--The Silver Bugle. Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
    147--Chinga, the Cheyenne. By Edward S. Ellis. Ready
    148--The Tangled Trail. By Major Max Martine. Ready
    149--The Unseen Hand. By J. Stanley Henderson. Ready
    150--The Lone Indian. By Capt. Chas. Howard. Ready March 23d.
    151--The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs. Ready April 6th.
    152--Billy Bowlegs, the Seminole Chief. Ready April 20th.
    153--The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robins. Ready May 4.
    154--Red Jacket, the Huron. By Paul Bibbs. Ready May 18th.


      BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.