Part 28 (2/2)

”Ask him where he will go, if we suffer him to depart,” said Boone. To Roughgrove's interrogation, the Indian made a pa.s.sionate reply. He said the white men were liars. They were now quits. Still the white men were not satisfied. He had risked his life (and would probably be tortured) to pay back the white men's kindness. But they would not believe his words. He was willing to die now. The white men might shoot him.. He would as willingly die as live. If suffered to depart, it was his intention to steal his squaw away from the tribe, and join the p.a.w.nees. He would never be an Osage again.

”Go!” said Boone, perceiving by a ray of moonlight that reached the Indian's face through the cl.u.s.tering branches of the trees above, that he was in tears. The savage, without speaking another word, leaped out into the prairie, and from the circuitous direction he pursued, it was manifest that nothing could be further from his desire than to fall in with the war-party.

Boone directed the sled to be abandoned, and, obedient to his will, the party entered a small covert in the immediate vicinity of the spot where their guide said he had emerged from the grove on his return to meet the whites. Here the party long remained esconced, silent and listening, and expecting every moment to see the foe. At length Boone grew impatient, and concluding they would encamp that night under the spreading tree, (the locality of which he was familiar with,) he resolved to advance and surprise them. He was strengthened in this determination by the repeated and painful surmises of Roughgrove respecting Mary's piteous condition. Glenn, and the rest, with perhaps one or two exceptions, likewise seemed disposed to make an instantaneous termination of the torturing suspense respecting the fate of the poor girl.

Boone and Sneak led the way. The party were compelled to proceed with the utmost caution. Sometimes they were forced to crawl many paces on their hands and knees under the pendent snow-covered bushes. They drew near the spreading tree. A fire was burning under it, the flickering rays of which could be occasionally seen glimmering through the branches. A stick was heard to break a little distance on one side, and Boone and Sneak sank down on the snow, and whispered to the rest to follow their example. It was done without a repet.i.tion of the order. Joe was the hindmost of all, but after lying a few minutes in silence, he crept softly forward, trembling all the while. When he reached the side of Boone, the aged woodman did not chide him, but simply pointed his finger towards a small decayed log a few paces distant. Joe looked but a moment, and then pulling his hat over his eyes, laid down flat on his face, in silence and submission. An Indian was seated on the log, and very composedly cutting off the dry bark with his tomahawk. Once or twice he paused and remained a moment in a listening att.i.tude. But probably thinking the sounds he heard (if he heard any) proceeded from some comrade like himself in quest of fuel, he continued to cut away, until an armful was obtained, and then very deliberately arose and walked with an almost noiseless step to the fire, which was not more than fifty yards distant. Boone rose softly and whispered the rest to follow. He was promptly obeyed by all except Joe.

”Come, sir! prepare your musket to fire,” said Boone, stooping down to Joe, who still remained apparently frozen to the snow-crust.

”Oh! I'm so sick!” replied Joe.

”If you do not keep with us, you will lose your scalp to a certainty,”

said Boone. Joe was well in a second. The party were now about midway between the fallen trunk where Mary was concealed, and the great encampment-tree. Boone rose erect for an instant, and beheld the former, and the single Indian (the chief) who was there. One of the Indians again started out from the fire, in the direction of the whites for more fuel. Boone once more pa.s.sed the word for his little band to lie down. The tall savage came within a few feet of them. His tomahawk accidentally fell from his hand, and in his endeavour to catch it, he knocked it within a few feet of Sneak's head. He stepped carelessly aside, and stooped down for it. A strangling and gus.h.i.+ng sound was heard, and falling prostrate, he died without a groan. Sneak had nearly severed his head from his body at one blow with his hunting-knife.

At this juncture Mary sprang from her hiding-place. Her voice reached the ears of her father, but before he could run to her a.s.sistance, the chiefs loud tones rang through the forest. Boone and the rest sprang forward, and fired upon the savages under the spreading tree. At the second discharge the Indians gave way, and while Col. Cooper, the oarsmen, and the neighbours that had joined the party in the morning, pursued the flying foe, Boone and the remainder ran towards the fallen trunk where Mary had been concealed, but approaching in different directions. Glenn was the first to rush upon the chief, and it was his ball that whizzed so near the Indian's head when he bore away the shrieking maiden. The rest only fired in the direction of the log, not thinking that Mary had left her covert. They soon met at the fallen tree, under which was the pit, all except Glenn, who sprang forward in pursuit of the chief, and Sneak, who had made a wide circuit for the purpose of reaching the scene of action from an opposite direction, entirely regardless of the danger of being shot by his friends.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.--P. 165]

”She's gone! she's gone!” exclaimed Roughgrove, looking aghast at the vacated pit under the fallen trunk. ”But we will have her yet,” said Boone, as he heard Glenn discharge a pistol a few paces apart in the bushes. The report was followed by a yell, not from the chief, but Sneak, and the next moment the rifle of the latter was likewise heard.

Still the Indian was not dispatched, for the instant afterwards his tomahawk, which was hurled without effect, came sailing over the bushes, and penetrated a tree hard by, some fifteen or twenty feet above the earth, where it entered the wood with such force that it remained firmly fixed. Now succeeded a struggle--a violent blow was heard--the fall of the Indian, and all was comparatively still. A minute afterwards, Sneak emerged from the thicket, bearing the inanimate body of Mary in his arms, and followed by Glenn.

”Is she dead? Oh, she's dead!” cried Roughgrove, s.n.a.t.c.hing her from the arms of Sneak.

”She has only fainted!” exclaimed Glenn, examining the body of the pale girl, and finding no wounds.

”She is recovering!” said Boone, feeling her pulse.

”G.o.d be praised!” exclaimed Roughgrove, when returning animation was manifest.

”Oh! I know you won't kill me! For pity's sake spare me!” said Mary.

”It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.

”It is! it is!” cried the happy girl, clinging rapturously to the old man's neck, and then, seizing the hands of the rest, she seemed to be half wild with delight.

”Dod--I--I mean that none of the black noctilerous savages shall ever hurt you as long as Sneak lives,” said Sneak, looking down at his gun, which had been broken off at the breech.

”How did you break that?” asked Boone.

”I broke it over the yaller feller's head,” said he, ”and I'd do it agin, before he should hurt Miss Mary, if it _is_ the only one I've got.”

”I have an extra rifle at home,” said Glenn, ”which shall be yours, as a reward for your gallant conduct.”

”Where is the chief? Is he dead?” asked Mary.

”If he ain't dead, his head's harder than my gun, that's all,” said Sneak.

<script>