Over the Rocky Mountains, Robert Michael Ballantyne [classic novels for teens txt] 📗

their wrists tied behind their backs; and thus, with armed savages around them, they were led away prisoners--they knew not whither.


CHAPTER FOUR.


SHOWS THAT THE TABLES ARE TURNED, AND THAT GOOD AND BAD FORTUNE CONTINUE TO COMMINGLE.

One fortunate circumstance attending the capture of Wandering Will and his friends was that the Indians happened to follow the route which they had been pursuing, so that, whatever might be their ultimate fate, in the meantime they were advancing on their journey.

Big Ben took occasion to point this out to his comrades the next night, when, after a severe day's ride, they were allowed to sit down and eat a scanty meal surrounded by the Indian warriors. No fire was lighted, for the savages knew they were now approaching their enemies' country. Their food, which consisted of dried buffalo meat, was eaten cold. In order to enable the captives to feed themselves, their hands had been loosed and refastened in front instead of behind them, but this did not in any degree improve their chance of escape, for they were guarded with extreme vigilance.

"You see, Mr Osten," said Big Ben, in a low tone, "it's a piece of good luck that they've brought us this way, 'cause when we leave them we have nought to do but continue our journey."

"Leave them!" exclaimed Will in surprise. "How shall we manage to leave them?"

"By escapin'," answered the trapper. "How it is to be gone about no man can tell, for man is only mortal an' don't know nothin' about the futur', but we'll find that out in good time."

"I hope we may," returned Will sadly, as he gazed round on the stern faces of the savages, who ate their frugal meal in solemn silence; "but it seems to me that our case is hopeless."

"Faix, that's what meself thinks too," muttered Larry between his teeth, "for these cords on me wrists would howld a small frigate, an' there's a black thief just forenint me, who has never tuk his eyes off me since we wos catched. Ah, then, if I wor free I would make ye wink, ye ugly rascal. But how comes it, Mister Trapper, that ye seem to be so sure o' escapin'?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm hopeful," replied Big Ben, with a smile.

"Hopeful!" repeated the other, "it's disapinted ye'll be then. Haven't ye often towld me that thim blackguards roast an' tear and torture prisoners nowadays just as bad as they ever did?"

"I have."

"Well,--d'ye think them Redskins look as if they would let us off, seein' that we've shot wan of them already?"

"They don't."

"Sure, then, yer hope stands on a bad foundation, an' the sooner we make up our minds to be skivered the better, for sartin am I that our doom is fixed. Don't 'ee think so, Bunco?"

The worthy appealed to was busily engaged in tearing to pieces and devouring a mass of dried buffalo meat, but he looked up, grinned, and nodded his head, as if to say that he believed Larry was right, and that in his opinion being roasted, torn, tortured, and skivered was rather a pleasant prospect than otherwise.

"I have two reasons for bein' hopeful," observed Big Ben, after a short silence. "One is that I never got into a scrape in my life that I didn't get out of somehow or another, and the other reason is that I have observed signs on the trees that tell me the enemies, for whom the Redskins are seeking, are aware of their bein' on the trail and will give them a warm reception, perhaps sooner than they expect."

"What signs do you refer to?" asked Will Osten. "I see no sign of man having been here."

"Perhaps not, and by good luck neither do the Injuns, for why, they can't read handwritin' as is not meant for 'em, but I know somethin' of the tribe they are after, an' one or two small marks on the trees tell me that they are not far distant. No doubt they will attack the camp at night."

"Ochone!" groaned Larry, "an' won't they brain an' scalp us wid the rest, an' our hands tied so that we can't do nothin' to help ourselves?"

"It is possible they may," returned the trapper; "and if they do we can't help it, but let me warn you all, comrades, if we are attacked suddenly, let each man drop flat on the grass where he sits or stands. It is our _only chance_."

Poor Larry O'Hale was so overcome by the gloomy prospects before him that he dropped flat on his back then and there, and gave vent to a grievous sigh, after which he lay perfectly still, gazing up at the stars and thinking of "Ould Ireland." Being possessed of that happy temperament which can dismiss care at the shortest possible notice, and being also somewhat fatigued, he soon fell sound asleep. His companions were about to follow his example when they heard a whizzing sound which induced them suddenly to sink down among the grass. At the same moment an appalling shriek rudely broke the silence of the night, and two of the sentinels fell, transfixed with arrows. One of these lay dead where he fell, but the other sprang up and ran quickly, with staggering gait, after his comrades, who at the first alarm had leaped up and bounded into the nearest underwood, followed by a shower of arrows. That these deadly messengers had not been sent after them in vain was evinced by the yells which succeeded their discharge. A moment after, several dark and naked forms glided swiftly over the camp in pursuit. One of these, pausing for one moment beside the dead Indian, seized him by the hair, passed his knife swiftly round the head so as to cut the skin all round, tore off the scalp, and stuck it under his girdle as he leaped on in pursuit.

Fortunately the prisoners were not observed. Larry on being awakened by the yell had half raised himself, but, recollecting Big Ben's caution, dropped down again and remained perfectly still. The attacking party had, of course, seen the sentinels fall and the rest of the warriors spring up and dart away, and naturally supposing, doubtless, that no one would be so foolish as to remain in the camp, they had passed on without discovering the prisoners. When they had all passed, and the sounds of the fight were at a little distance, Big Ben leaped up and exclaimed:--

"Comrades, look sharp, moments are golden. They'll be back like a shot! Here, Larry, grip this in yer hand an' stick the point of it agin' that tree."

While he spoke in a cool, calm, almost jocular tone, the trapper acted with a degree of rapidity and vigour which showed that he thought the crisis a momentous one. With his fettered hands he plucked the knife from the girdle of the dead Indian and gave it to Larry O'Hale, who at once seized it with his right hand, and, as directed, thrust the point against the stem of a neighbouring tree. The trapper applied the stout cords that bound him to its edge, and, after a few seconds of energetic sawing, was free. He instantly liberated his companions.

"Now, lads," said he, "down the stream and into the water as fast as you can."

Our hero and Larry, being utterly ignorant of the manners and habits of the people amongst whom they were thrown, obeyed with the docility of little children--showing themselves, thereby, to be real men! Bunco, before darting away, seized an Indian gun, powder-horn, and shot-belt which had been left behind. The attack had been so sudden and unexpected that many of the savages had found it as much as they could do to save themselves, leaving their arms behind them. Of course, therefore, no one had thought of encumbering himself with the weapons of the prisoners. Big Ben had thought of all this. His wits had long been sharpened by practice. He also knew that his white comrades would think only of escaping, and that there was no time to waste in telling them to look after their weapons. Giving them, therefore, the general direction to rush down the banks of the stream and get into the water, he quietly but quickly seized his own piece and the guns of our hero and the Irishman, together with one of the large powder-horns and bullet-pouches of the war-party; also two smaller horns and pouches. The securing of these cost him only a few seconds. When Will Osten and Larry had run at full speed for several hundred yards down the stream which flowed near to the spot where the war-party had encamped, they stopped to take breath and receive further instructions. The active trapper and Bunco were at their heels in a moment.

"You forgot your guns," said the trapper, with a quiet chuckle, handing one to Larry and the other to Will.

"What nixt?" asked Larry, with a strange mixture of determination and uncertainty in his tone--the former being founded on his character, the latter on his ignorance.

"Follow me. Don't touch a twig or a blade o' grass on the banks, an' make as little noise as you can. Running water leaves no trail."

Saying this, Big Ben stepped into the stream, which was a small shallow one, and flowed for nearly half a mile through a sort of meadow among the mountains. Down this they all waded, carefully avoiding the banks, until they reached a narrow part where the stream tumbled over a precipice. Here the trapper paused, and was about to give some directions to his comrades, when the sound of constrained breathing was heard near to him. With a sudden demonstration of being about to fire, he turned and cocked his gun. The sharp click was no sooner heard than three Indians burst out from beneath the bushes which overhung the water, and, springing up the bank, fled for their lives. The trapper could not refrain from chuckling.

"These," said he, "are some of the rascals that caught us, making their escape by the same way that we are, but they don't know the ground as well as I do, and apparently have got perplexed at the top o' the fall. 'Tis well. If the Redskins pursue, they will find the trail here as clear as a king's highway--see what a gap in the bushes they have made in their fright at the sound o' my lock! Well, well, it's not many men that have pluck to keep quiet wi' that sound in their ears, and the muzzle pointed at their heads! All we have to do now is to descend the precipice without disturbing the shrubs, and then--"

A sound of horses galloping arrested him.

"Hist! don't move!"

At that moment about a dozen of the horses belonging to the war-party came thundering down along the banks of the stream. They had broken loose, and were flying from the Indians who had attempted to catch them. On nearing the precipice, over which the stream leaped with noisy petulance, the snorting steeds drew up in alarm, as if undecided which way to turn.

"A rare chance!" cried the trapper. "Every man for himself--keep well up the hill, comrades? an' hem them in."

Saying this,