Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 729 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Silverblade, the Half-Blood. Had Silverdale been less deeply impressed by that wondrous vision, his worldly eyes would have been opened far more quickly, As it was, this second night-camp was fated to lay bare the stunning truth. Eating over, the Indians filled their pipes and athered around the comfortable fire, as usual. nly the half-blood kept apart, pacing to and fro with pantherish restlessness, All at once his attention was ee by words from the lips of Shooting Backward, the battle- scarred chief of the Grosventres, ‘‘ Weare half-way to our people, brothers,” he spoke, in the patois commonly used where mem- bers of different tribes were in council. “It is time to know what words our lips are to give, when questioned.” ‘Shooting Backward bas been thinking deep- ly. Heis very wise. He knows not bow to talk foolish words. Oan we do better than to take his thoughts for our own, my brothers?’ slowly spoke one of the Bannocks, ‘‘ Let the war-chief tell his children what to say,” added another of the Grosventres, ‘¢ What words are wiser than those let fall by the lips of the New Messiah?’ asked tne wily chief, glancing quickly around the cirele, ‘‘ And did he not say that the pale-faces should surely perish?” ‘* He said that many must perish, both white and red.” ‘* Because they fell to fighting before his com- ing down to earth with the death-word on his lips,” quickly amended the old chief, his sunken eyes glittering with a half-humorous light at his own reflections. ‘* My ears caught those words as well as yours, my brothers,” with a dignified bow toward the last speaker. ‘‘ But when other, wiser, and sweeter words came from the Messiah’s lips, those were crowded out from my ears, and T let them lie, as too heavy to carry with ease, ‘* Shooting Backward is very old, His ears are not what they were when these trees were but little bushes. He may have heard wrongly, or he may get hold of the words by the wrong end, now he tries to draw them forth; but this is what the Messiah said in answer to his son, when Shooting Backward asked him questions: All pale-faces must perish when the Messiah comes; with a single word he will cause a mighty wave of melted rock to sweep over aud swallow them up. ‘* Did the old man hear wrongly, brothers?” ‘“‘He heard aright! We caught the same words!” *“*Good!” with a grim smile briefly lightin up his wrinkled visuge. ‘‘If this is true—an the Indian Messiah knows not how to lie! If all this is true, why should we lead our people far from their homes, to fight, to suffer, to die?” ‘‘ Because the Messiah commands!” cried Sil- verblade, springing into the circle, his face aglow with strong emotion, bis voice ringing with anger. ‘‘ Because we have promi to obey our master! Bscause—” ‘* Peace!” sternly cried one of the Shoshones, lifting a clinched hand, ‘‘Wise men are in eouncil, and there is more room for boys on the outside!” ‘‘ Are we children, and one-half white, that ou dare scold us, son of Luke Woodbridge?” arshly chimed in the other Shoshone chief, ‘Let the boy speak, my brothers,” coldly in- sed Shooting Backward, ‘‘Maybe we heard wrongly. Maybe Silverblade is wise enough to bring our feet back to the right trail.” ‘¢ There is sore need of it!” flashed the youth roudly facing those whom he had once deemec his friends, but upon whom he now looked as most dangerous enemies, not to himself, but to the great master whom they had sworn to serve in all truth and fidelity. ‘‘ Have you so soon forgotten the pledge you gave to the Indian Messiah? Did he not bid us all return to our ople, and open their dull eyes to the glorious uth? Did he not say that we must fight hard for victory over the pale-faces? That we must atber our braves and lead them to join our brethren of the South?” “Wait, son of Weenamoo,” quietly said Shooting Backward, lifting a skinny hand to calm the hot-beart, “ You have ears, and they were open to the words of the Messiab. Surely you heard him say, what I have said, that at his coming, all pale-faces should perish ra ‘¢ And that all red-men who had died fighting for his cause, should be raised up to eternal life! Such were the words the Messiah spoke!” “My ears heard them, son of Weenamoo,” with a bow of assent. ‘‘ When the white men died, the red-men weve to live again, ° That is good—it is very good! But so are the other words good; that at his word, every one with white blood in their veins, save those who had been turned all red through faith in their coming Messiah, must die the death, ‘* If one word is true, all words are true, And since the Messiah can and will do aJl this, with- out help from his weak children, like us, why should we lead our people so far away from home, now that the snow is coming with its freezing and its starvation?” ‘‘ Are these the words Shooting Backward means to give his people?” demanded Silver- blade, with forced composure, though his eyes flashed hotly and his hands were clinched so fiercely that blood tinged his finger-nails. ‘*They are the words given by the Messiah. Shooting Backward will give his people time to think, before rushing blindly into greut pain and suffering, for which there is no need.” Silverblade gazed at the speaker with such fire in his eyes, such fierce scorn in every fea- ture, that the old chief involuntarily moved a hand toward the weapons at his middle. But then, with a gesture of mingled contempt and despair, the half-blood turned upon the oldest one of the Shoshones present, ** And yeu, Lean Bull? What wordsare your lips bearing to our people?” ‘*Lean Bull is a chief. He cannot hear the squalls of pappooses, when he is seated with other wise men in council,” coolly retorted the Sho- shone, ‘*Speak, Lean Bull,” mildly said Shooting Backward, that grim smile coming back to his withered visage, ‘‘Silverblade is young, but he was old enough for the Messiah to see him, though he stood among chiefs and mighty war- riors. Speak, since Silverblade asks it,” ‘*Shooting Backward has spoken, and his words are mine,” sulkily growled the Shoshone, ‘* Lean Bull will tell his people the same, If the half-blood pappoose thinks Ais voice is loud- est, let him stand up by the side of a chie/’, and our people will choose between us.” ‘‘ And you, Feather-foot?” persisted Silver- blade, turning to fhe last of his tribe there pres- ent, ‘‘ What words will your lips form?” ‘‘The same as those of my brother,” with a bow toward Lean Bull, ‘‘ Why should we fight, when all that we might gain by war will come to us without suffering on our or The Messiah promised, and so it will surely be!” For a few moments there was silence, during which Silverblade cast searching but now hope- less looks into each bronzed face about the camp- fire. He asked no furtber questions, for he could read the same decision in each face as he gazed, He re cot outside the little circle, then faced them all, his clinched right hand lifting, his lithe figure drawn proudly erect, his black eyes seeming backed by living fire from bis hot heart as he cried aloud: ‘TY have asked, and you bave answered, mighty chieftains and most wise men! You have picked out a few words from the’ many let fall by the New Messiah, and cast all the rest away, as worthless! This is your faith, your belief, your fidelity? Then—this is Silver- blade’s ! ‘* He is but a youth, and his voice is too weak for his people to hear, wben you all speak at the same time, but he is old enough to serve the art and old enough to perish while serving im} **Go back to your people, and advise them to crawl into holes and bide there until the great wave passes by! But if any ask where is Silver- blade, who went forth with the great chiefs and wise men, tell them he has gone to join Sitting Bull, the mighty medicine-man of the Sioux! Tell them he is Silverblade, the Ghost Dancer, until the bour comes for fighting!” and without pausing for a reply, the half-blood sprung to his horse, mounted, and dashed furiously away through the night, CHAPTER VII. UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH, ~ ‘I tell you, men, you don’t even begin to know the slippery devil! If you did, you’d nigh as soon turn bim loose in a heap, as to give him even the ghost of a chance to slip his neck out o’ the noose!” ‘* Kin he draw his head in, like a tortle, Tom?” ‘* Mebbe so he all same like spook?” ** Devil a bit the aither wan o’ them!” brokein still another mocking voice, as a fiery-topped Milesian pushed to the front, a broad griu on his hairy phiz. ‘* Sure, b’yes, it’s invyin’ the dumb baaste that he’s afther; takin’ the job av head-choker-in-chafe away, d’y’ moind, now?” The sun was just hiding itself from view, and the shadows were beginning to deepen there in that long, narrow valley, shut in on both sides by saw-toothed ranges, too low to deserve the title of mountains, yet rather formidable-looking for mere bills. As a rule, those hills were clotbed with somber pines and other evergreens, given them a somber, even gloomy appearance, though their foliage remained untouched, while the first bard frosts of coming winter had killed more juicy leaves of the hard-wood trees along the course of the valley. In a seattering clump of these, a rude camp had been pitched. Fires had been kindled, and at least one meal eaten hard by, as the debris gave ample evidence, Here and there more than a score of horses were staked out, picking at the scanty grass, cured on the stem, or lazily browsing on such young wood as came within their limits, One horse was far differently occupied, how- ever, and around the spot where he stood, plainly centered the main interest. That horse bore a rider, but plainly an un- willing one, for his arms were bound bebind his back, a noose was fitted around his neck, the dingy Jine running upward to a stout limb of the tree near the base of which the animal stood. An unwilling rider, as those grim prepara- tions for an execution bore witness, but not a craven one, A grim smile curled bis lips as the doomed man caught the swift jests which followed the angry protest delivered by Tom Frinkle. Yet he knew that his sentence had been pronounced. He knew that little short of a miracle could save his life. Still, his unhampered lips could smile instead of bursting out with prayers for mercy, for life, for at least a few minutes’ grace, that he might meet death with firmer hopes of salvation! “Youre right, Pat!” cried Tom Frinkle, smothering his fierce rage and forcing a smile more in tune with the grim pleasantry, ‘'I do envy my horse, and who'd got a better right? Who owes that pitiless bloodhound a deeper debt of vengeance than the brother of Morg. Frinkle?” ‘* That’s all right, pardner,” gruffly nodded a huge, broad-shouldered man of middle age, leaning carelessly against the trunk of a tree bard by. ‘“* There's mighty few of our kidney in these parts who have any cause for loving the ent on borseback. J don’t, for one. But lm in for letting him take bis chances for a few hours, while we put in a few licks on our own account, If he’s still in the saddle when we come back, why, that’s another matter, You can play spur then, 1f you like,” ‘¢- You'd leave him here alone, then?’ “With the nag: until they part company,” laughed the big fellow, © ‘* Like master, like hoss: and I’m betting odds that your critter’ll catch us up before we hit the ranch, Frinkle.” ‘The critter might, but—where’d Buck Horton be?” ‘* Strung up to dry, of course!” ‘*Ow, the dandy bait that same’d make for hoongry wulves, thin!” ‘*Hold!" sharply cried Tom Frinkle, with uplifted hand, bis gaunt, dark face showing almost wolfish in the fire-glow, ‘' Who laid the trap into which this bloodhound sneaked? Who was first to find out that the Border Beagle was on our trail?” ‘* You did, Tom, and we’ve given you full credit for it all, surely.” é ‘* And let you judge him, as well,” | ‘‘ When shootin’ or knifin’d be mighty sight quicker over!” growled still another member of the party. ‘‘ Hain’t that’nough fer a hog, even, that you keep still a-gruntin’ fer more?” ‘* A love of hanging runs in the breed,” sneer- ed the man with a rope about his neck, ‘‘Mcrgan Frinkle fed that love until a noose closed about his throat, over in the Little Bi Horn Valley. His brother, Tom Frinkle, wi choke in the same style.” ‘And right there you have it, men!” harshly exploded the gaunt member, his face flushing until it looked nearly black in the deepening twilight. ‘‘ This devil hung my brother! There were only the twoof us left, I loved Morg. as few brothers ever loved, if I.do say so myself, I would have given my life for his, at any hour, and a thousand times over, if such a sacrifice was possible. And yet—when his time of need ' came—lI was too far away to help him out!” ‘‘ Because the valley was too small to support two horse-thieves of the Frinkle caliber,” langh- ed the doomed man. Tom Frinkle turned with a vicious snarl, one hand gripping bis knife, as though longing to leap upon the Border Beagle and cut from his throat the tongue that dared mock his dead, GOMIeEDOOKS:..CcoO