Part 33 (1/2)
”I was, yesterday,” I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. ”To-day, I am as you see.”
”O heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, ”this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?”
”In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them.”
”Who gave you these wounds?”
”Indians. I have just escaped from them.”
”Indians! What Indians?”
”Arapahoes.”
”Arapahoes! Where did you encounter them?”
The question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement.
”On the Huerfano,” I replied--”by the Orphan b.u.t.te. It was the band of a chief known as the Red-Hand.”
”Ha! The Red-Hand on the Huerfano! Stranger! are you sure of this?”
The earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. I answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment--without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. Indeed, I was not allowed to enter into particulars. I was hurried on by interpellations from my listener--who, before I could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner:
”Red-Hand in the valley of the Huerfano! news for Wa-ka-ra!” After a pause she hastily inquired: ”How many warriors has the Red-Hand with him?”
”Nearly two hundred.”
”Not more than two hundred?”
”No--rather less, I should say.”
”It is well--You say you have a horse?”
”My horse is at hand.”
”Bring him up, then, and come along with me!”
”But my comrades? I must follow the train, that I may be able to return and rescue them?”
”You need not, for such a purpose. There is one not far off who can aid you in that--better than the escort you speak of. If too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. You say the caravan pa.s.sed yesterday?”
”Yesterday about noon.”
”You could not overtake it, and return in time. The Red-Hand would be gone. Besides, you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the canon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. You cannot cross that way: the ridge is impa.s.sable.”
As she said this, she pointed to the left--the direction which I had intended to take. I could see through a break in the bluff a precipitous mountain spur running north and south--parallel with the ravine I had been threading. It certainly appeared impa.s.sable--trending along the sky like the escarpment of some gigantic fortress. If this was true, there would be but little chance of my overtaking the escort in time. I had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. The delay, no doubt, would be fatal. In all likelihood, both Wingrove and Sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the vengeance of the Arapahoes, freshly excited by my escape. Only from a sense of duty did I purpose returning: rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths.
What meant this mysterious maiden? Who possessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages--the most warlike upon the plains?
Who was he that could aid me in avenging them?