Robert Michael Ballantyne - The Prairie Chief

“Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?” asked the Indian quickly.

“Ha! that’s a fair slap in the face,” said Tim, with a laugh, “but there may be reasons for that, you see. Gals ain’t always as willin’ as they should be; sometimes they don’t know a good man when they see him. Besides, I ain’t too old yet, though p’raps some of ’em thinks me raither short for a husband. Come now, don’t keep yer old comrade in the dark. Haven’t ye got a notion o’ some young woman in partikler?”

“Yes,” replied the Indian gravely.

“Jist so; I thowt as much,” returned the trapper, with a tone and look of satisfaction. “What may her name be?”

“Lightheart.”

“Ay? Lightheart. A good name—specially if she takes after it, as I’ve no doubt she do. An’ what tribe does—”

The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept out of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly beheld the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a smoking ruin.

It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had ridden so far and so fast to join their friends. And how shall we speak of the state of poor Whitewing’s feelings? No sound escaped his compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark eyes, as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left arm, he grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed. Little Tim was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in his right hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close behind.

The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but Whitewing’s sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up with the men of war.

The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed terrible. Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning, and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful massacre that had so recently taken place. It was evident that the camp had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were spared had been carried off into slavery. In every direction outside the camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had fallen in unavailing defence of home.

The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound silence, because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those who had been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to restrain and hide their feelings. Only the compressed lip, the heaving bosom, the expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires that raged within.

In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble, tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing. It need scarcely be said that the young chief acted with vigour. He with the trapper having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party—evidently a different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle’s camp—and ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his tribe. Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to protect the women and children. Having made his dispositions and given his orders, Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance on the enemy’s trail; followed by his faithful friend. Reining up suddenly, he said—

“What does my brother counsel?”

“Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer own devices. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and know what’s best.”

“Manitou knows what is best,” said the Indian solemnly. “He directs all. But His ways are very dark. Whitewing cannot understand them.”

“Still, we must act, you know,” suggested the trapper.

“Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it may be that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of the white man.”

“Well, I don’t know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice, whatever it’s worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in front and rear at the same time, and that you and I should go out in advance to scout.”

“Good,” said the Indian; “my plan is so arranged.”

Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper exclaiming, “Hold on? here’s some one coming after us.”

A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp. It turned out to be Brighteyes.

“What brings my sister?” demanded Whitewing.

The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany them.

Her brother sternly refused. “It is not woman’s part to fight,” he said.

“True, but woman sometimes helps the fighter,” replied the girl, not venturing to raise her eyes.

“Go,” returned Whitewing. “Time may not be foolishly wasted. The old ones and the children need thy care.”

Without a word Brighteyes turned her horse’s head towards the camp, and was about to ride humbly away when Little Tim interfered.

“Hold on, girl! I say, Whitewing, she’s not so far wrong. Many a time has woman rendered good service in warfare. She’s well mounted, and might ride back with a message or something o’ that sort. You’d better let her come.”

“She may come,” said Whitewing, and next moment he was bounding over the prairie at the full speed of his fiery steed, closely followed by Little Tim and Brighteyes.

That same night, at a late hour, a band of savage warriors entered a thicket on the slopes of one of those hills on the western prairies which form what are sometimes termed the spurs of the Rocky Mountains, though there was little sign of the great mountain range itself, which was still distant several days’ march from the spot. A group of wearied women and children, some riding, some on foot, accompanied the band. It was that which had so recently destroyed the Indian village. They had pushed on with their prisoners and booty as far and as fast as their jaded horses could go, in order to avoid pursuit—though, having slain all the fighting men, there was little chance of that, except in the case of friends coming to the rescue, which they thought improbable. Still, with the wisdom of savage warriors, they took every precaution to guard against surprise. No fire was lighted in the camp, and sentries were placed all round it to guard them during the few hours they meant to devote to much-needed repose.

While these Blackfeet were eating their supper, Whitewing and Little Tim came upon them. Fortunately the sharp and practised eyes and intellects of our two friends were on the alert. So small a matter as a slight wavering in the Blackfoot mind as to the best place for encamping produced an effect on the trail sufficient to be instantly observed.

“H’m! they’ve took it into their heads here,” said Little Tim, “that it might be advisable to camp an’ feed.”

Whitewing did not speak at once, but his reining up at the moment his friend broke silence showed that he too had observed the signs.

“It’s always the way,” remarked the trapper with a quiet chuckle as he peered earnestly at the ground which the moon enabled him to see distinctly, “if a band o’ men only mention campin’ when they’re on the march they’re sure to waver a bit an’ spoil the straight, go-ahead run o’ the trail.”

“One turned aside to examine yonder bluff,” said the Indian, pointing to a trail which he saw clearly, although it was undistinguishable to ordinary vision.

“Ay, an’ the bluff didn’t suit,” returned Tim, “for here he rejoins his friends, an’ they go off agin at the run. No more waverin’. They’d fixed their eyes a good bit ahead, an’ made up their minds.”