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Free Trapper's Pass / or, the Gold-seeker's Daughter!
CHAPTER I.
THE RAID OF THE BLACKFEET
On a tributary of the Yellowstone River, and near to the Bighorn Mountains, there stood, at the time our story opens, a cabin. Though roughly constructed, there was an air of nicety and comfort about it, which could hardly be expected in a frontier log-house. On the outside, the walls presented a comparatively smooth surface, though a glance would be sufficient to satisfy one that the work was of the axe and not of the plane. On the inside, the walls seemed to be plastered with a material, which, in its primitive state, resembled stiff brown clay; and it was through a chimney of the same substance that the smoke of the fire within found vent.
A fair girl stood in the shadow of the rude doorway. Her hair, golden as the memory of childhood’s days, floated in soft ringlets over her exquisitely-formed shoulders, half concealing in its wavy flow her lovely cheeks, mantling with the rich hue of life – cheeks which, long ago, might have been tinged with the sun’s brown dye, but which now, miracle though it might seem, bore little trace of old Sol’s scorching hand, or tell-tale mark of western marches. Blue eyes she had, and a lovely light lingered in their liquid depths, while her form was one corresponding to her face, slender, but lithe and springing, well calculated to endure, along with a stout heart, the privations which must come upon one thus so strangely out of place.
Half turning, she threw up one beautiful arm, and with her hand shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun, at the same time glancing to the right. As she did so, she gave a slight start, for, in the distance, she had caught sight of an approaching horseman. As cause for fear was, however, quickly removed, as she almost immediately recognized him as a friend. Murmuring lightly to herself:
“Ah, John Howell! What can he be after?” She watched with some interest his onward progress. Why was it that he so suddenly halted? Why did horse and rider remain mute and motionless, gazing in the direction of a mound which lay not far distant from the cabin?
From behind its concealing shade, with a horrid yell, a band of Indian braves at least fifty in number, in single file approached.
The majority of the band came directly toward the house, but the form of Howell, stationed, sentinel like, upon the crest of a knoll, having been speedily observed, a squad of four well-mounted and well-armed braves dashed toward him at full speed.
Half the intervening distance had been traversed before the trapper – for such was the white man – had fully determined whether their advance was friendly or hostile in its nature. When at length he caught fuller glances of their forms, it was with remarkable celerity that he unslung his rifle and brought it to bear upon the nearest of the advancing foes, tersely exclaiming:
“Blackfeet, by mighty!”
At the touch of the finger upon the trigger the weapon was discharged, and he who had been the mark, fell. Without waiting to see the success of his shot, Howell turned his horse and struck the heavy Mexican spurs deep into his sides, speeding in hot haste over the rolling ground, with the three red-skins following in close pursuit.
While these things were transpiring, the main body was marching steadily toward the cabin. Simultaneously with the report of Howell’s rifle, the band halted in front of the dwelling.
In front, mounted before a sturdy-looking brave, was a noble-looking white man. Although his hands were tied, yet from time to time they had not scorned to eye him with anxious glances, seemingly fearful that by some Sampsonian attempt he might free himself. Thus, when the party halted, men closed around him, upon either side, guarding against such a catastrophe.
The young girl still stood in the shadow of the door, with the fairy hand shading her eyes; but her face was pale as ashes, and her heart must have throbbed at whirlwind speed, to have corresponded with the way in which her bosom rose and fell. It was very sudden. A single horseman in sight, and he a friend; then to see in a moment more a half a hundred yelling savage foes! For a moment she looked at them, but, as her gaze rested on the captive, she raised the other arm, and stretching forth both, feebly cried:
“Father!” then slowly sunk to the floor.
The prisoner, too, caught sight of the girl, and with a violent wrench sought to free himself from his bands. Strong as is a father’s love, the cords of the savage proved yet stronger, and he found himself, perforce, compelled to act as best suited his captors. They, evidently fearing something of an ambuscade, were slow to enter, and with weapon poised with eager eyes, they glanced through the open door. Finding that their fears had no foundation, they dismounted, even allowing and assisting their captive to once more set foot upon the ground. At this close approach the girl somewhat revived. First consciousness of existence came back, then recollection, then strength, and she sprung to her feet, rushed between the two Indians who led the van, and throwing her arms around the neck of her father, exclaimed:
“Father, father! What does this mean? Why are you thus a captive?”
In the background, gazing with a look half inquisitive, half scowling upon these two, was a man, who, though dressed in the garb of the tribe, and his cheek deep tinged by exposure, still gave evidence of being of the white race. He was a short, stoutly-built man, of perhaps thirty years of age. His hair, dressed in the Indian style, was black, eyes small, and set deeply in his head, and the brow, though broad, was low and retreating. From some cause, the end of his nose was wanting, and this, with the wide and disproportionate shape of his mouth, tended to heighten the outlandish expression of his physiognomy.
Toward this person did Major Robison – the captive – turn his eye, and, raising as best he could, his bounds hands, pointed with them, at the same time saying, bitterly:
“For this, I may thank you, you renegade, Tom Rutter. It was through his means I was taken; and now that it is done, let him take good care of himself, else I may be speedily avenged.”
“Look a-hear,” interrupted the man thus addressed, a dark scowl sweeping over his brows, “I don’t care about havin’ you or yer daughter; ain’t no interest of mine; ’twon’t do me no good. It am accordin’ to orders. I don’t know as they wants you partiklar bad either. Whatever they wants, they’re goin’ to hev – you hev to go ’long now; and when yer free to locomote again, by-and-bye, we squar accounts. Don’t go to sayin’ hard words agin me an’ them red-skins, if you don’t want to be purty affectually rubbed out. Jist keep a cool, civil tongue in that ar head o’ yours, make yer tracks in the right manner, and you’ll fare well.”
Major Robison, considering that to bandy words at that time would be dangerous and effect nothing, turned to his daughter, and in a low tone inquired what had become of her brother, Hugh. The answer was given in an equally low voice.
“He left me but a short time ago, for a ride across the plains. I know not what else he had in view; but I much fear that he will return before marauders leave, and so fall into their hands.”
“Never fear for Hugh. If he is mounted, and with weapons in his hands, the fleetest horseman in the tribe could scarce overtake him in a day.”
As Robison stated, it did not seem to be the intention of the Blackfeet to remain here long. But a short space of time was occupied in ransacking the dwelling, and as they emerged, bearing in their hands whatever of desirable plunder they had been able to find, Tom Rutter, who seemed to have, in some sort at least, the command of the expedition, addressed them in words which, if rendered into English, would read:
“I tell you we must be making tracks out of this. We have been successful in our undertaking, but we must not trust to a run of good luck. You understand Blackfeet, what we want the prisoners for. It is for your good more
