CHAPTER FIVE.
THE MOUNTAIN FORTRESS.
In one of those numerous narrow ravines of the Rocky Mountains whichopen out into the rolling prairies of the Saskatchewan there stood someyears ago a log hut, or block-house, such as the roving hunters of theFar West sometimes erected as temporary homes during the inclementwinter of those regions.
With a view to render the hut a castle of refuge as well as a home, itsbuilder had perched it close to the edge of a nearly inaccessible cliffoverhanging one of those brawling torrents which carry the melting snowsof the great rocky range into one of the tributaries of the Saskatchewanriver. On what may be called the land side of the hut there was aslight breastwork of logs. It seemed a weak defence truly, yet aresolute man with several guns and ammunition might have easily held itagainst a considerable band of savages.
One fine morning about the time when the leaves of the forest werebeginning to put on their gorgeous autumnal tints, a woman might havebeen seen ascending the zigzag path that led to the hut or fortress.
She was young, well formed, and pretty, and wore the Indian costume, yetthere was something in her air and carriage, as well as the nut-browncolour of her hair, which told that either her father or her mother hadbeen what the red men term a "pale-face."
With a light, bounding step, very different from that of the ordinaryIndian squaw, she sprang from rock to rock as if in haste, and, climbingover the breastwork before mentioned, entered the hut.
The interior of the little fortress was naturally characteristic of itsowner. A leathern capote and leggings hung from a nail in one corner;in another lay a pile of buffalo robes. The rough walls were adornedwith antlers of the moose and other deer, from the various branches ofwhich hung several powder-horns, fire-bags, and bullet-pouches. Nearthe rude fireplace, the chimney of which was plastered outside and inwith mud, was a range of six guns, of various patterns and ages, all ofwhich, being well polished and oiled, were evidently quite ready forinstant service. Beside them hung an old cavalry sabre. Neither tablenor chairs graced the simple mansion; but a large chest at one sideserved for the former, and doubtless contained the owner's treasures,whatever these might be, while three rough stools, with only nine legsamong them, did service for the latter.
The action of the young woman on entering was somewhat suggestive of thecause of her haste. Without a moment's delay, she seized a powder-hornand bullet-pouch, and began to charge the guns, some with ball, otherswith slugs, as fast as she could. There was a cool, quiet celerity inher proceedings which proved that she was accustomed to the handling ofsuch weapons.
No one looking upon the scene would have guessed that Softswan, as shewas poetically named, was a bride, at that time in the midst of thehoneymoon.
Yet such was the case. Her husband being the kindliest, stoutest andhandsomest fellow in all that region had won her heart and hand, hadobtained her parents' consent, had been married in the nearestsettlement by a travelling missionary, and had carried off his prettybride to spend the honeymoon in his mountain fortress. We can scarcelycall it his home, however, for it was only, as we have said, a temporaryresidence--the Rocky Mountains, from the Gulf of Mexico to the ArcticCircle, being his home.
While the Indian bride was engaged in charging the firearms, arifle-shot was heard to echo among the surrounding cliffs. It wasfollowed by a cry, as if some one had been wounded, and then there arosethat terrible war-whoop of the red men which, once heard, can never beforgotten, and which inspires even the bravest with feelings of at leastanxiety.
That Softswan was not free from alarm was pretty evident from thepeculiar curl of her pretty eyebrows, but that the sounds did notunnerve her was also obvious from the quiet though prompt way in whichshe gathered up all the loaded firearms, and bore them swiftly to thebreastwork in front of the cabin. Arranging the guns in a row at herside, so as to be handy, the girl selected one, laid it on the parapet,and carefully examined the priming. Having satisfied herself that itwas all right, she cocked the piece, and quietly awaited the issue ofevents.
The weapon that Softswan had selected was not picked up at haphazard.It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, thecharge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt tokill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest wasgentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for bloodand revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives.
After a time the poor girl's anxiety increased, for well she knew that awhoop and a cry such as she had heard were the sure precursors ofsomething worse. Besides, she had seen the footprints of BlackfootIndians in the valley below, and she knew from their appearance thatthose who had made them were on the war-path, in which circumstancessavages usually dismiss any small amount of tender mercies with whichthey may have been naturally endowed.
"Oh why, why you's not come home, Big Tim?" she exclaimed at last, inbroken English.
It may be well to explain at once that Big Tim, who was the only son ofLittle Tim, had such a decided preference for the tongue of his whitefather, that he had taught it to his bride, and refused to converse withher in any other, though he understood the language of his motherBrighteyes quite as well as English.
If Big Tim had heard the pathetic question, he would have flown to therescue more speedily than any other hunter of the Rocky Mountains, forhe was the swiftest runner of them all; but unfortunately he was too faroff at that moment to hear; not too far off, however, to hear the shotand cry which had alarmed his bride.
From the position which Softswan occupied she could see and commandevery portion of the zigzag approach to the hut so that no one couldreach her without being completely exposed to her fire if she weredisposed to dispute the passage. As we have said, the hut stood on acliff which overhung the torrent that brawled through the gorge, so thatshe was secure from attack in rear.
In a few minutes another rifle-shot was heard, and the war-whoop wasrepeated, this time much nearer than before.
With compressed lips and heightened colour, the solitary girl preparedto defend her castle. Presently she heard footsteps among the thickbushes below, as if of some one running in hot haste. Softswan laid herfinger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might beher husband. Oh why did he not shout to warn her? The poor girltrembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of thedanger and the necessity for immediate action.
Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside,peeped from among them. He was a savage, in the war-paint and panoplyof a Blackfoot brave. The spot to which he had crept was indeed thenearest to the hut that could be reached in that direction, but Softswanknew well that an impassable chasm separated her from the intruder, soshe kept well concealed behind the breastwork, and continued to watchhim through one of the peep-holes made in it for that purpose. Shemight have easily shot him, for he was within range, but her naturerevolted from doing so, for he seemed to think that the hut wasuntenanted, and, instead of looking towards her place of concealment,leaned over the cliff so as to get a good view of the lower end of thezigzag track where it entered the woods.
Could he be a foe to the approaching Indians, or one of them? thoughtthe poor girl, rendered almost desperate by doubt and indecision.
Just then a man burst out of the woods below with a defiant shout, andsprang up the narrow track. It was Big Tim. The savage on the cliffpointed his rifle at him. Indecision, doubt, mercy were instantly sweptaway, and with the speed of the lightning flash the girl sent her chargeof slugs into the savage. He collapsed, rolled over the cliff, and wentcrashing into the bushes underneath, but instantly sprang up, as ifunhurt, and disappeared, just as a dozen of his comrades burst upon thescene from the woods below.
The echoing report of the gun and the fall of their companion evidentlydisconcerted the aim of the savages, for their scattering fire left thebounding Tim untouched. Before they could reload, Softswan sent them apresent of another
charge of slugs, which, the distance being great, soscattered itself as to embrace nearly the whole party, who thereuponwent wounded and howling back into the forest.
"Well done, my soft one!" exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leapover the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even inthat moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy andthankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected tofind her dead and scalped, if he found her at all.
Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining thefirearms and ready for action.
"Fetch the sabre, my soft one," said Big Tim, addressing his bride bythe title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day.
The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually lightand joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attackedby overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to theeccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfectconfidence in him. Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word orlook, she obeyed the order.
Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and aslight smile played on his features as he said--
"I have good news for the soft one to-day."
The soft one looked, but did not say, "Indeed, what is it?"
"Yes," continued the youth, sheathing the sabre; "the man with the kindheart and the snowy pinion has come back to the mountains. He will behere before the shadows of the trees grow much longer."
"Whitewing?" exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her brightblack eyes.
"Just so. The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now apreacher."
"Has the pale-face preacher com' vis him?" asked the bride, with aslightly troubled look, for she did not yet feel quite at home in herbroken English, and feared that her husband might laugh at her mistakes,though nothing was further from the mind of the stout hunter than tolaugh at his pretty bride. He did indeed sometimes indulge thepropensity in that strange conventional region "his sleeve," but no owlof the desert was more solemn in countenance than Big Tim when Softswanperpetrated her lingual blunders.
"I know not," he replied, as he renewed the priming of one of the guns."Hist! did you see something move under the willow bush yonder?"
The girl shook her head.
"A rabbit, no doubt," said the hunter, lowering the rifle which he hadraised, and resuming his easy unconcerned attitude, yet keeping his keeneye on the spot with a steadiness that showed his indifference wasassumed.
"I know not whether the pale-face preacher is with him," he continued."Those who told me about him could only say that a white man dressedlike the crows was travelling a short distance in advance of Whitewing,but whether he was one of his party or not, they could not tell. Indeedit is said that Whitewing has no party with him, that he travels alone.If he does, he is more reckless than ever, seeing that his enemies theBlackfeet are on the war-path just now; but you never know what ahalf-mad redskin will do, and Whitewing is a queer customer."
Big Tim's style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature--sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that ofhis Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-factstyle of his white sire.
"Leetil Tim vill be glad," said Softswan.
"Ay, daddy will be pleased. By the way, I wonder what keeps him out solong? I half expected to find him here when I arrived. Indeed, I madesure it was him that tumbled yon Blackfoot off the cliff so smartly.You see, I didn't know you were such a plucky little woman, my soft one,though I might have guessed it, seeing that you possess all the goodqualities under the sun; but a man hardly expects his squaw to be greaton the war-path, d'ye see?"
Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended inthese words.
"Me loves not to draw bloods," she said gravely, with a pensive look onthe ground.
"Don't let that disturb you, soft one," said her husband, with a quietlaugh. "By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harmthan if you'd gin him an overdose o' physic. But them reptiles bein' inthese parts makes me raither anxious about daddy. Did he say where hemeant to hunt when he went off this morning?"
"Yes; Leetil Tim says hims go for hunt near Lipstock Hill."
"Just so; Lopstick Hill," returned Tim, correcting her with offhandgravity.
"But me hears a shote an' a cry," said the girl, with a suddenly anxiouslook.
"That was from one o' the redskins, whose thigh I barked for sendin' anarrow raither close to my head," said the young man.
"But," continued his bride, with increasing anxiety, "the shote an' thecry was long before you comes home. Pr'aps it bees Leetil Tim."
"Impossible," said Big Tim quickly; "father must have bin miles away atthat time, for Lopsuck Hill is good three hours' walk from here as thecrow flies, an' the Blackfeet came from the opposite airt o' thecompass."
The young hunter's prolonged silence after this, as well as theexpression of his face, showed that he was not quite as easy in his mindas his words implied.
"Did the cry seem to be far off?" he asked at last quickly.
"Not far," returned his wife.
Without speaking, Big Tim began to buckle on the cavalry sabre, not inthe loosely-swinging cavalry fashion, but closely and firmly to hisside, with his broad waistbelt, so that it might not impede hismovements. He then selected from the arms a short double-barrelled gun,and, slinging a powder-horn and shot-pouch over his shoulders, preparedto depart.
"Now listen, my soft one," he said, on completing his arrangements. "Ifeel a'most sartin sure that the cry ye heard was _not_ daddy's;nevertheless, the bare possibility o' such a thing makes it my dooty togo an' see if it was the old man. I think the Blackfeet have drawed offto have a palaver, an' won't be back for a bit, so I'll jist slip downthe precipice by our secret path; an' if they do come back when I'maway, pepper them well wi' slugs. I'll hear the shots, an' be back toyou afore they can git up the hill. But if they should make adetermined rush, don't you make too bold a stand agin 'em. Just let flywith the big-bore when they're half-way up the track, an' then slip intothe cave. I'll soon meet ye there, an we'll give the reptiles asurprise. Now, you'll be careful, soft one?"
Soft one promised to be careful, and Big Tim, entering the hut, passedout at a back door, and descended the cliff to the torrent below by aconcealed path which even a climbing monkey might have shuddered toattempt.
Meanwhile Softswan, re-arranging and re-examining her firearm, sat downbehind the breastwork to guard the fort.
The sun was still high in the heavens, illuming a magnificent prospectof hill and dale and virgin forest, and glittering in the lakelets,pools, and rivers, which brightened the scene as far as the distanthorizon, where the snow-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose grandlyinto the azure sky.
The girl sat there almost motionless for a long time, exhibiting in herface and figure at once the keen watchfulness of the savage and theendurance of the pale-face.
Unlike many girls of her class, she had at one period been brought for ashort time under the influence of men who loved the Lord Jesus Christand esteemed it equally a duty and a privilege to urge others to fleefrom the wrath to come and accept the Gospel offer of salvation--men whothemselves had long before been influenced by the pale-face preacher towhom Softswan had already referred. The seed had, in her case, falleninto good ground, and had brought forth the fruit of an earnest desireto show good-will to all with whom she had to do. It had also arousedin her a hungering and thirsting for more knowledge of God and His ways.
It was natural, therefore, as she gazed on the splendid scene spread outbefore her, that the thoughts of this child of the backwoods should riseto contemplation of the Creator, and become less attentive to inferiormatters than circumstances required.
She was recalled suddenly to the danger of her position by theappearance of a dark object, which seemed to crawl out of the bushesbelow, just where the zigzag track enter
ed them. At the first glance itseemed to resemble a bear; a second and more attentive look suggestedthat it might be a man. Whether bear or man, however, it was equally afoe, at least so thought Softswan, and she raised one of the guns to hershoulder with a promptitude that would have done credit to Big Timhimself.
But she did not fire. The natural disinclination to shed bloodrestrained her--fortunately, as it turned out,--for the crawling object,on reaching the open ground, rose with apparent difficulty and staggeredforward a few paces in what seemed to be the form of a drunken man.After one or two ineffectual efforts to ascend the track, theunfortunate being fell and remained a motionless heap upon the ground.
The Prairie Chief Page 5
