Beadle's Half Dime Library, Vol. III, No. 78 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

ae Crane ee eee a —-- ——-— --- - -— all sides resulted in the universal conviction: that their guide had betrayed him, or, at all events, had stolen off, taking the mare along with him! There was no more sleep for the eyes of the emigrants. One and all ran wildly around the wagons—the whites meeting each other with cautions and curses, alike contradictory; the blacks—men, women and children—huddling together, and giving voice to their fears in shrieks and chattering. And, in the midst of this confusion, a dark mass was seen moving across the prairie, upon which the white light of the moon was already becoming blended with that of the gray dawn. At first it came slowly and silently, as though stealing toward the camp. Then, asif conceal- ment was no longer deemed necessary, the mass broke into a scattered cloud, showing it to be composed of horsemen. Their trampling sounded upon the turf, at the same time that a wild yell, issuing simultane- ously from three-score throats, struck terror into the hearts of the emigrants. There could be no mistaking that cry. It was the war-whoop of the Cheyennes. The travelers had no time to reflect upon it: it was the slogan of attack; and before they could think of any plan for defending them- selves, the dusky horsemen were near at hand, tornado! _- Dick. Blue with their sweet music,and fearing only the rapacious white-headed eagle, that occasionally ‘““whetted his saw” or laughed his maniac laugh, perched on the cliffs overhead. Only from the hights above could a view be had of the “hole”; and to get this required climbing beyond any thing curiosity was likely to encourage. No prairie traveler would have taken the trouble, unless he chanced to be a German geologist, hammer in hand, or a botan- ist of the same inquiring race, in search of rare plants. Led by the love of science, these simple but ardent explorers go everywhere, into every cranny and corner of the earth—even the “holes” of the Rocky Mountains, where often have their dead bodies been found, with heads stripped of their skins by the knife of the undis- criminating savage. Ascending the cliff from the outside, and looking down into the gorge described, you might fancy that no human being had ever entered it. To do so would cost some exertion. And some danger too: for there was a hun- dred feet of precipitous rock to be scaled down- ward at the risk of getting a broken neck. Some one had taken this risk, however: for on the same night in which the Cheyenne chief had sallied out to attack the emigrant camp, only a little later and nearer morning, a fire 'might have been seen glimmering among the swooping down upon them like the breath of a | cottonwvod trees that covered the bottom of the rlen. The emigrants were not all cowards. Three |_ It could only have been seen from a aay bag or four were men of courage, and not the least | lar point above, where no one was likely to be courageous was Snively, the overseer, Still | straying. On all other sides it was concealed was it more by a mechanical impulse, than any | by the thick foliage of the trees, through which hope of successfully defending themselves, that they discharged their guns in the faces of the Sig PIE MS y foemen. t did not stay the impetuosity of the charge. Their shots were returned by a volley from the guns of their savage assailants, followed up by a thrusting of spears; and, in less than ten min- utes’ time, the corral was captured. When the day broke it disclosed a scene, since then, alas, far from unfrequent on the prairies. A wagon-train, with its tilts torn down, and the contents strewed around it; the cattle that had drawn it along standing near, and wonder- ing what had befallen it; their owners, in cap- tivity, some of them bound hand and foot, others lying lifeless upon the turf! Embracing all, a cohort of painted savages; some keeping guard over the captives, others indulging in an unchecked Saturnalia; some dead-drunk, others reeling in a state of half in- toxication—each with cup in hand, filled with the fire-water taken from the ie eg wagons! Such was the spectacle on Bijou Creek on that morning, when the emigrant train of the ex-Mississippi planter fell into the hands of a war-party of Cheyennes, led by the Yellow Chief. CHAPTER VIL. TWO TRAPPERS. THE gorge in which the young Cheyenne chief and his followers had made their night bivouac, was only one of a series of similar glens, that, with short intervals between, notched the foot of the sierra where it edged upon the open prairie. It was not the main chain of the Rocky Mountains, but a spur running out into the plain. About a mile further along, and nearer to Bijou Creek, was another gorge, not very dis- similar in size, but somewhat different in char- acter. Instead of having an embouchure open to the plain, it was shut in on all sides by bluffs, rising abruptly above it to the hight of over a hundred feet. _There was an outlet, nevertheless; where a tiny spring-branch, gurgling forth from the bottom of the encircling cliffs, passed out into the open country, after making its way through a cahon, which it had no doubt cut for itself in the course of countless ages. But as it needled a cleff no wider than might admit the body of a man, not much wider was it, from top to bottom of the cliff. A traveler might have passed within a hundred yards of its outer face looking toward the plain, without perceiving this break in the precipice, or taking it only for a fissure in the facade of the rocks. The inclosed space inside, in one other respect differed from the glen that had been occupied by the Indians. Its bottom was thickly tim- bered by cottonwood and other trees; while along the ledges of the cliff, and wherever a crevice afforded root aecommodation, grew prions and the creeping cliff cedar. It seemed a favorite haunt for the owls and bats, but only at night. By day the birds ap- peared to have full possession of it—filling it | deep sigh, though tho si its smoke, scattering as it passed upward, be- came dissipated into thin haze before reaching the crest of the cliffs. By this fire, far remote from the hearths of civilization, two men were seated, bearing but a slight resemblance to each other. One was characteristic of the scene; his costume and accouterments, in short his tout-ensemWe, pro- claiming him unmistakably a trapper. Hunt- ing-shirt of dressed deer-hide, fringed at cape and skirt, leggings of like material, moccasins soled with parjfléch, and on his head a felt hat, with crown and brim showing long service. His hair close-cropped, gave little framing to his face, that was naturally dark in color, but darker with dirt, sun-tan ani wrinkles. It looked the face of a man who had seen nearly sixty summers, and quite as many winters. His companion was not over half his age nor in any way like the man we have taken for a trapper, although garbed in the costume com- mon to ‘‘mountain men.” He wore the hunt- ing-shirt, leggings and moccasins; but all were tastefully cut and elaborately embroidered. It might have been the difference between youth and age; and both may have been trap- pers alike. Still was there something about the younger man—a delicacy of feature and refine- ment of manner—very different from those who take to this rude, adventurous calling. A thought of the kind seemed to have come uppermost in the mind of his elder companion, as they sat by their camp-fire just kindled. It still wanted half an hour of sunrise; and they had issued out of their skin lodge, standing close by, to cook their morning meal. It was pre- paratory to starting out on a tour of inspection to their traps, set overnight in the streams near at hand. large flitch of buffalo-meat, com- rising several hump-ribs, was roasting in the laze; and they were waiting till it should be sufficiently done. It was the elder who spoke first; at least upon a subject foreign to the preparation of their re- t past. ‘*Durn it, Ned!” said he, “‘ I’ve been dreemin’ *bout ye last night.” ‘*Indeed! I hope nothing that promises bad luck. Bah! why should I think of luck, one way or the other? For me there can be none in the future worse than I’ve had in the past. t was your dream, ’Lije?” “Oh! nuthin’ much. I only thort I see’d ye alongside o’ a gurl; an’ she war a-pullin’ at ye to git ye away from the mountings. She war tryin’ to tote ye along wi’ her.” ‘* She didn’t succeed, I suppose ?” ‘Waal! I woke up ’fore it kim to thet. But ef’t hed been the gurl as I see’d in my dreem an’ it war all true, I reck’n she’d ’a’ hed a good chance,” ‘And pray what girl did you see in your dream ?’ ‘“Maybe you’d like me to pronounce the ef ye do, I'd say Clar’ Blackedder. She war the very gurl as war a-draggin’ at ye.” At the mention of the name *‘ Ned” heaved a LS SSssSsSsssssss=sss=~nssssssssss ===> hindered his companion from hearing it. But, by the brighter light caused by the fat falling among the cinders, a shadow could be seen su denly overspreading his countenance; his fea- tures at the same time assuming a cast half sad, half angry. ‘‘Not much danger of that dream coming true,” he said, with an effort at composing them. ‘‘Clara Blackadder has no doubt long ago changed her name; and forgotten mine too ‘‘T don’t think she’s dud eyther one or the tvother. Weemen are a kewrous kind o’ var- mint; an’ cling onto thar affecshuns a deal harder’n we do. Besides, that gurl wa’n’t one 0’ the changin’ sort. I know’d her since she war knee-high to a duck. She war the aa one the hul family o’ Blackedders worth knowin’; for a bigger cuss than the brother wa’n’t no- whar to be foun’ in Massissipp, ’ceptin *twar the ole squire hisself. That gurl loved you, Ned; an’ ef you’d took the right way wi’ her, you mout yourself ’a’ had the changin’ o’ her name.” ** What way?’ yer ‘*Whipped her off on the crupper 0’ seddle—jest as these hyar purairia ‘pil some- times does. Ye shed ’a’ dud thet an’ said no more about it, eyther to her father or to any- body else. It’s the way I dud myself wi’ Sal Siocum, down thar in Tennersee bottom. nich on thirty yeern ago, fore I went down to the Choctaw Purchiss. Dick, her ole dad, war all ag’in’ me havin’ his gurl, ’cause he hed a spite at me for beatin’ him at a shootin’-match. “Twa'n't no use his oppersishun. I got my critter seddiled up, one night when Dick war soun’ asleep inthis shanty, an’ I toted Sal off, an’ took her afore a Methody preecher, who coupled us thegither in the shakin’ 0’ a goat’s tail. An’ I never bad reezun to rue it. Sal made me a good wife; as long’s she lived. I hain’t hed a better ‘wn since.” The young man smiled sadly at the strnnge ideas of his trapper companion; but the subject being a painful one to him, he made no re- joinder. “'Thet’s what you ought to dud wi’ Clar’ Blackedder,” persisted the trapper, without noticing his companion’s chagrin, ‘‘cut cl’ar away wi’ her. Ef ye’d ’a’ hed her for y’ur wif 0, | Oo it ud ’a’ been diffrent for ye now. Instead bein’ hyar in the mountings, mopin’ yer innards out—for I kin see ye’re doin’ thet, Ned—ye mout now be settled in the State o’. Massissip, workin’ a cotton plantashun wi’ a smart chance o’ niggers on’t. Notas I myself shed care "bout pm, i for arter twenty yeern 0’ ramblin’ over these hyar sade roy I ain’t fit to live in the settle- ments. ’s different wi’ you, however, who ain’t noways shooted for a trapper’s life—though Pll say thar ain’t a better shot or hunter in «|! these purairias. Anybody kin see ye’re hyar for a diff’rent purpiss; tho’ I reck’n ’Lije Orton air the only ’un to which you've confided yur secret. Wal; you know I like ye, Ned; an? thet’s why I don’t like to see ye so down in the dumps. They’ve been on you ever since you left Massissipp; an’ I reck’n you'll find no cure for ’em out hyar.” ‘* Admitted, ’Lije Blackadder. As i know you are my friend, If a admit it. But what would you have me of “Go back to the Choctaw Purchiss, get once more ‘longside the gurl, an’ do wi’ her as I did wi’ Sal Slocum—run away wi’ her.” ‘But she may be married? Or perhaps no oe cares for me?” is was said with a sigh. ‘‘Neyther one nor t’other. ‘Lije Orton air willin’ to bet high on thet. Fust place, thar war reezuns she wouldn’t git married eezv. The ole squire, her dad, wa’n’t pop’lar "bout the Purchiss; an’ I don’t think he wur over rich. The young ’un must ’a’ spent most o’ the shiners as come in for the cotton. I know you w'u'dn't ’a’ cared "bout thet; but others w’u’d: an’ I guess Clar’ Blackedder wa’n’t like to hey ber choice ’mong the sons 0’ the best planters; an’I , guess too she wa’n’t the gurl to hev anv o the second-rates. Then she liked you powerful She told me so, time I wur back thar jest arter you left. Yes, Ned; she liked you, .«’ take this chile’s wurd fur it, she'll stick tc thet likin’ as death to a dead nigger.” Quaint and queer as was th trapper’s talk, it was pleasant to the ear of .udv ard O'Neil: for such was the name of the \oun _man—the rame who had made suit for she hay d of Clare Black«~ adder, and been scornfull’ rejected by her father. : Of his life since that time the story is easily supplied. On leaving the State of Mississippi Ghbooks.Go coilm that I still think of Miss .