light at last broke over the prairie, many eyes were cast anxiously backward, but not a sign of the Indians was visible. The warning of Lamora had saved them!
Fred Hammond could not drive the thoughts of this beautiful being from his mind, and finally he determined that, as he had joined the company for the sake of adventure, he would turn back and seek adventures of the most romantic kind.
So, on the afternoon of this day, he quietly withdrew from the company, and started at an easy gallop in the direction that the guide had indicated led toward the home of the mysterious and beautiful Lamora; and, leaving our hero for a time to himself, we must now bestow our attention upon others, who have a part to play in this narrative. Love, the passion of our nature, will play the mischief with all of us, and Fred Hammond was soon off on this great “love-chase” of his life.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT IS IT?
Black Tom and old Stebbins had a hard day’s ride of it, and they drew the rein in a heavily-timbered grove, just as the sun was setting, with the intention of camping there for the night.
They were well up toward the Black Hills, in a country broken with forest, hill and prairie, and interspersed with streams of every size, from the rivulet and foaming cañon to the broad, serenely-flowing river.
They were in a region infested with grizzly bears and the fiercest of wild animals, and above all with the daring and treacherous Blackfeet—those dreaded red-skins of the North-West, with whom the hunters and trappers are compelled to wage unceasing warfare, and who are more feared than any tribe that the white men encounter.
So these veteran prairie-men proceeded with all their caution and kept their senses on the alert for any “sign” of their old enemies, who came down sometimes like the sweep of the whirlwind, and who had the unpleasant trait, after being thoroughly whipped, of not staying whipped.
Dismounting from their ponies, old Stebbins walked back to the edge of the timber, and carefully made a circuit around it. He was thus enabled to gain quite an extended view of the surrounding prairie, although his view was broken and obstructed in several places.
Tired and ravenously hungry as he was, he moved cautiously and made his tour of observation as complete as it was possible to make it. Finally he turned about and joined his companion, who had kindled a good roaring camp-fire during his absence, and had turned both horses loose to crop their supper among the luxuriant grass and budding undergrowth of the grove.
“Well, Steb., how do you find the horizon?” asked Black Tom, who bore that soubriquet on account of his exceedingly dark complexion.
“Cl’ar, as the sky above?”
“Nary a sign?”
“Yas—thar’s signs, but the sky is powerful cl’ar.”
This apparently contradictory answer requires a little explanation. Old Stebbins had detected signs of Indians—indeed had indubitable evidence that they were in the neighborhood; but the signs which indicated this fact to them indicated still further that the same Indians, or Blackfeet, as they undoubtedly were, had no suspicion of the presence of white men. This, therefore, disclosed a “clear sky” so far as the trappers were directly concerned, although they were thus made aware that there was a dark, threatening cloud low down in the horizon, which might rise, and send forth its deadly lightning.
Looking to the westward, Stebbins saw a wooded ridge a hundred rods or so distant, which shut off any further view in that direction; but, about a half-mile beyond this, his keen eyes detected the smoke of a camp-fire. It was very faintly defined against the clear blue sky, but it was unmistakable, and indicated that a party of Indians were encamped there.
Why, then, did Black Tom sit so unconcernedly upon the ground, after hearing this announcement, and permit their fire to burn so vigorously, when its ascending vapor might make known to the Blackfeet what they did not even suspect?
Because night was closing around them, and ere the red-skins would be likely to detect the suspicious sign, it would be concealed in the gathering darkness—and the dense shrubbery effectually shut out the blaze from any wanderers that might venture that way.
As there was nothing at hand immediately to engage their attention, the trappers, after gathering a goodly quantity of fuel, reclined upon the ground, and leisurely smoked their pipes.
“Teddy is gone a powerful while,” remarked Tom, as he looked up and saw that it was quite dark; “he can’t be as hungry as we are.”
“He’s seed the sign—and he’s keerful—hello!”
At that instant, the report of a gun was heard, sounding nearly in the direction of the Indian encampment. The trappers listened a moment, and then Tom added, in the most indifferent manner possible:
“Wonder ef that chap’s got throwed.”
“Hope not,” returned his companion, “fur ef he is we’ll have to go to bed on an empty stomach, or scratch out, and hunt up our supper for ourselves.”
The individual who had occasioned this remark was Teddy O’Doherty, a rattling, jovial Irishman, who had got lost from an emigrant train several years before, and in wandering over the prairie fell into the hands of the trappers, with whom he had consorted ever since.
He had spent enough time among the beaver-runs of the north-west, to become quite an expert hunter; he had acquired a certain degree of caution in his movements, but there still remained a great deal of the rollicking, daredevil nature, which was born in him, and he had already been engaged in several desperate scrimmages with the red-skins, and the wonder was that he had escaped death so long.
Like a true Irishman, he dearly loved a row, and undoubtedly he frequently “pitched into” a party of Indians, out of a hankering for it, when prudence told him to keep a respectable distance between him and his foes.
On this afternoon, when riding forward over the prairie, old Stebbins indicated to him the grove where they proposed spending the night, when the Irishman instantly demanded:
“And what is it yees are a-gwine to make yer sooper upon?”
“We’ll have to hunt up something,” replied Tom; “we’re out of ven’son, and thar don’t seem to be any fish handy.”
“Do yees go ahead, and make yerselves aisy,” instantly added Teddy. “I’ll make a sarcuit around the hill yonder, jist as I used to sarcle around Bridget O’Moghlogoh’s cabin, when I went a-coortin’, to decide whether to go down the chimney or through the pig-stye in the parlor. Do yees rest aisy, I say, and I’ll bring the sooper to yees.”
And with this merry good-by, he struck his wearied pony into a gallop, and speedily disappeared over the ridge to which reference has been already made, and the trappers passed on to the grove, where we must spend a few minutes with them, before following the fortunes of the Irishman, who speedily dove, head foremost, into the most singular and astounding adventure of his life.
The hunters listened some time for a return-shot or shout to the gun, but none was heard.
“It was Teddy’s
