Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 94 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

? .———_—_———— eee _ eg a had ‘actually fallen upon his ears, and he had recognized the voice as—Midnight Jack’s. What did he mean by ‘‘ we are all here?”’— did his words in any manner refer to his sister —to that girl whom the boy had such a curios- ity to meet? “CVar the way! er the mules will elevate their heels an’ bu’st a head,’ suddenly cried Tanglefoot, and Gid found himself riding through the dusky crowd, while the Indian drums and whistles were once more raising their ear-splitting din. It was a thrilling moment for the boy. He could not resist the temptation to look back. But he could see no ‘indian face that resem- bled the road-agent’s. . ‘“T might have been mistaken!” he said to himself. . Mistaken? no! Gopher Gid. Look at that young Indian who is keeping pace with your mule, See how he eyes you, and glances madly at Timon Moss. That man is Midnight Jack! CHAPTER VII. A TUSSLE IN THE DARK, THE torches flaring over the dancing grounds of the Sioux village revealed the motley crowds surging to and fro in the grotesque ceremonies that precede the opening of the grand sun- dance. The wild music of the Indian drums still disturbed the ear, and ever and anon the shrill yet musical notes of a bugle rose above the din. The blower of this instrument, so strangely out of place in an Indian camp, was a boyish fellow whose rotund appearance was indicative of lusty health; the pierceing blasts that he blew told the story of sound lungs, and as he flitted hither and thither over the square he attracted more than usual attention. His cheeks were always distended, for the bugle never left his mouth for a moment, and he blew as if his life hung upon the effort, A beautiful silver bugle it was that Mouse- skin held to his lips; it had sounded the last charge of Custer’s immortal squadron in the valley of the Rosebud, and its present possessor could tell how the blue-coated bugler had clung to his horn, even after death had stolen into his heart. Mouseskin had won the horn; it was his; and he blew it with that pride which made him obnoxious to more than one Indian in the town. Gopher Gid heard the blasts so lustily blown by the young Indian, but he paid no particular atkantion to them. A military bugle in a say- age camp was no mystery to him, and his hands grew tight as he muttered: ‘“‘ There’s another thing that reminds me that I am among the butchers of Custer and his men. But there was another person to whom the ever-sounding bugle conveyed much that was mysterious. : We have said that the Sioux village contained about a thousand lodges. This is a fair esti- mate. They were arranged in a rude circle, and faced the square whose four corners were marked by the lodges of the principal chiefs, as Tiger Tail, Setting Sun, and Hungry olf. nding in one of these stoutly-built birchen habitations, with her face pressed against a crevice, through which came the light of the distant stars, aa the hubbub without, was a oung Indian girl. ‘ She was lew in half-civilized garments; her beautiful hair hung in wavy splendor down her back, and her feet, small and shapely, were in- cased in moccasins which had never been made for them—they fitted loosely, and in no graceful manner, ; It was to this creature that Mouseskin’s bugle sent strange emotions. , ‘‘ What can it mean?” she asked herself, in a low voice, while the most piercing of all the blasts was sounding in her ears. ‘It sounds like the bugles they have in the army; but I — wove that archaea at father’s fort.” e words were spoken in good English which denoted gentle breeding, md a tangs look filled the ger wr ‘‘Hush, Weeping Leaf!” said a yoice so near the gitl, that she started back into the gloom of the lodge with a light cry of terror, ‘““Weeping Leaf?” she echoed; “TI am not an Indian, They dyed my skin while I was raving mad; and, to ore make me like them, red and barbarous, they have named me Weep- ing Leaf. Do I regret that I have come to such a fate? No! I came to this country on a good mission—to find my brother cursed by a father and driven from home to become a vagabond, they say, somewhere between Omaha and the eee A _ : ‘Midnight Jack, coast, Father, retired on half pay, and proud of faithful service, is soon to go beyond the scene of his one great grief. I told him that I would bring Jack back for forgiveness; but he groaned, and, hiding his face in his hands, cried that Jack was dead—filling a scoundrel’s grave somewhere in this lawless country. ‘* But I know better,” she continued, with trust- fulemphasis. ‘‘He is not dead. I am herea captive, not only painted and dressed like an Indian girl, but called by an outlandish savage name. They shall not always keep me thus; I will find that brother. I will pay the red fiends back for the attack they made on our wagon. They have warmed a viper in Dora Lightway— one whose aims are to find her banned brother and to deal them blows of death. I did not know that that captor of mine was so near, and still I might have known that I would not be left unguarded. Ay, stars! look down and see that I am not an Indian, because my skin is red —look down and hear, the vows of vengeance which well from my heart every minute of my captivity !” As she uttered the last word she moved to the crevice again, and turned her eyes upward to the brilliant orbs of the vasty sky. Louder and clearer than ever came the blast of the bugle. It sounded so shrill that the girl started. The Indian boy was nearing the lodge; he was probably making a tour of the village, frighten- ing the curs from their surreptitious feasts of stolen bones, and drawing curses from the in- firm and bedridden red-skins. ‘** Who blows that bugle?” the girl asked, curi- ously, trying to catch sight of the blower; but the next moment a dark figure rose between her and the stars. It was the burly body of the guard, and his action told the girl that he had purposely ob- structed her line of vision. The next bugle blast was broken by the voice of the Indian who stood against the lodge. ‘**Dog! will you give your mouth no rest?” said the guard, angrily. Mouseskin ct suddenly and, removing the bugle from his lips, looked fixedly at the savage who had addressed him. ‘* Who speaks to Mouseskin?” he demanded with an authoritative pomposity that smacked not a little of the ludicrous. He stepped forward as he spoke, his bugle in his left hand, a drawn dirk in his right, ‘‘His master speaks!” was the quick rejoin- der. ‘‘ Little dogs must not try to bark like the big ones. Maybe they make up in many barks what they lack in noise.” ‘*The horn is Mouseskin’s! He got it where the Yellow Hair fell with all his warriors. Was Feel-the-Sky there?” This last was uttered in a tone that roused the ire of the Indian guard. ‘*Go’way, or Feel-the-Sky will kick the croak- ig, ots i ouseskin’s eyes flashed at this, and Feel-the- Sky advanced to bestow the threatened kick. All at once, like a panther preparing for a spring, the noisy Sioux boy dropped to the grou , and the next moment threw himself eavily upon the guard. Dora Lightway, the girl captive, heard the collision, and saw two figures writhing and sumuggling in the dim starlight. Feel-the-Sky went down before Mouseskin’s assault; he was completely thrown off his feet, and the combatants fell heavily against the lodge, shaking various skins from the walls upon the girl, ‘This may prove a providential battle for me!” ejaculated the captive, with hope for a moment lighting up her eyes. ‘I pray thee, Heaven, that thou mayest send me deliverance, Ah! me! how they struggle! The one seems but a boy; he can be no match for Feel-the-Sky, my captor!” ike two mastiffs contending for victory, the red-skins fought just without the birchen lodge. The advantage was with the boy whose sudden eharge had taken his adversary at a disad- vantage, and he was exhibiting more agility than one of his physique might be supposed to possess. ‘‘Ah! me, a groan! a blow! the knife of one is at work!” Dora said, with a shudder for the sounds which assailed her ears. Then a strange silence came into the lodge. The battle was over, but, who had won? Perhaps both the combatants lay dead? A half-hour of mental torture away and Dora put her hand through the crevice; it touched the rude bar which secured the door. Holding her breath, she worked silently at this till it fell and then sko easily stepped out. 7 What a thrill of joy shot through the heart of Midnight Jack’s young sister. The stars were above her; the lodge of cap- tivity behind! It was a moment the emotions of which can- not be described. Near her lay the body of a man, and near to it another dark heap, but much smaller, ** They have both fallen!” This is what Weeping Leaf said to herself, The sounds before her told her that safety lay in the route that stretched in the opposite direction. ‘* Heaven guiile my feet!” she fervently cried. A shrill bugle blast at her very side almost lifted her from her feet. With a ery of horror she turned and saw Mouseskin on his knees, blowing with all his might. The sight decided the soldier’s daughter. ‘*T am not free with that Indian here!” The next moment she sprung upon the boy a the intention to do or die, and pushed him ck, At the same time she snatched the silver bugle from his lips, and struck him heavily with the singular weapon. : ‘* Now I am free!” she said, and still clinging to the bugle-horn, she turned from the scene, and ran beyond the cordon of wigwams. The thought of escape lent new speed to her limbs, and she was just entering a line of cot- tonwoods that stood like stately sentinels in the starlight, when a figure rose from the ground in her very path. In an instant she saw the plumes of an In- dian warrior, and halted with the famous horn drawn menacingly back. But her right arm was caught before it could descend, and she saw a grotesque red face peer- ing into hers. **Go!” said a voice, and Dora was pushed on in no very gentle manner, But the next words sent a thrill through ey- ery fiber of her frame. ‘Only a poor, sneakin’ Injun gall! I don’t hev dealin’s with thet kind o’ truck. I’m hyar arter a white ‘un, an’ ll make the i open thar eyes afore to-morrer night. For I’m the Screamin’ Eagle of the Smoky Roost! a reg’lar sky-scraper !” ora stood still like a person rooted to the ground with amazement, She was afraid to breathe. The man near her might be a friend! CHAPTER VIILI. READY FOR THE WORST. ‘WHO ar’ ye look n’ at?) Move yer boots, er the Screamin’ Eagle—no! the Red Jingo of the Little Big-Horn will accelerate yer pace!” Weeping Leaf, or Dora, saw the figure step forward as these words smote her ear, ‘“He cannot be my friend,” she muttered. ‘“‘To him let my skin be red and not white. He’s a white man, despite his disguise—one of those renegades I have often read about,” Again the girl fled, and left the strange being alone in the path which she had lately tra- ersed, ‘T mustn’t let my tongue slip any more,” mused the man, thus left near the edge of the cottonwoods. ‘‘I must be a wolf jest like the rest of the pack. I’m the Red Jingo; the Screamin’ rage of the Smoky Roost is lost. till I git out o’ this pickle, Ef I war huntin’ red gals, what a nice one I could hev picked up; but I want to get the white ’un, the sister of that young devil, Midnight Jack.” ‘‘And we will get her!” _ “ Holy Moses!” exclaimed the speaker, start- ing from the apparition standing against the nearest as well as one of the largest trees me I talkin’ aloud, Mid—no! Runnin’ Wa- r? 4 Slightly!” was the reply..68 ae two In- ian-like res came together an asped hands, ‘ You were talking about a Pte 6 she pass here?” , ‘Yes; an Injun crittur. tree?” . ‘“‘No! It stands in a dangerous locality,” was the low response. ‘‘ Many of the Indians keep a sham fast; they have caches in the wood, Out yonder it is full of them, stealing out for a mor- sel. Deny an Indian’s stomach when food is nigh, if youcan. But the pistols are safe in the tree. Jt isnot a cache; we will not need them to-morrow.” ‘Tf they should find ’em, thar’s no one in the camp who kin read.” ‘ Ah, but there is, Rube.” Who?" “Old Tanglefoot!” Hev ye been to the (CONMICE JOO SHalEl