Chapter XII: In the Forest

The sudden fainting and falling of the wretched night-wandering Olive saved her life.

The panther had been startled by her shrill screams, miscalculated the distance, leaped over her and was instantly engaged in deadly warfare with another of its kind, that had also come upon the same errand--was stealing along like a grim ghost through the bushes, and was hurled to the earth by the one that leaped from the tree.

But the poor girl fortunately knew nothing of the savage duel--heard nothing of the snarling, tearing, ripping--the snapping of jaws--the rending of claws--the terrible howls. All that was spared her, and when she awoke to something of consciousness she crawled in an opposite direction, though wondering very much as she paused to rest in the sunshine, that streamed through the tree-tops, how her dress should have become so spotted with blood--which she believed came from human veins.

Refreshing herself from a cool spring that trickled out from the mossy interstices of a rock, she endeavored to think of what it was best to do. Of her exact locality she had no conception, but after an hour of reflection she believed she knew the course to the valley, where her lover had been walled in, and following the dictation of her heart, womanlike, rather than her reason, she determined upon the desperate task of finding and releasing him.

But how difficult the undertaking she was soon convinced--difficult and dangerous. More than once she fled in alarm from a rustling in the bushes--once she stood almost face to face with a great, gaunt timber-wolf--once she trod upon a shining, scaly serpent, whose horrid hissings rung in her ears for hours afterward, making her very flesh creep.

It was a terribly long, tedious, laborious, foodless day, and when night gathered around she sought and found a large hollow tree, gathered branches, crept within, barricaded it, and, with a fervent prayer to Heaven, was soon lost in the deepest slumber of all her young lifetime.

Yet even blessed rest was denied her. Scarcely an hour had passed before she was awakened by something scratching without, and saw two red eyes peering in at her that flashed angry lightnings, while a deep roar told of some wild beast. Then she intuitively knew all that was to come--knew how much she was at the mercy of some savage monster!

She had taken up her quarters in the home of one of the huge bears of the mountains, and it was returning to its cubs!

Guided far more by impulse than reason, she grasped one of the largest of the branches and struck the hideous beast in the face, and then, as it drew back in astonishment, she sprung forth screaming, to the full extent of her lungs--sprung forth and ran swiftly away, the bear following, and it would very soon have torn her limb from limb had not the plaintive cries of its cubs recalled it, and with nature triumphing over passion it returned to the tree, giving her an opportunity to escape.

What should she do? She dared neither to stand still or go on--had lost all her reckoning--knew not in what direction she was going--was fainting from hunger--was powerless to protect herself. But with constant prayer for him she loved as well as her own safety she continued to wander, momentarily expecting to be confronted by some of the monsters of the forest. And so utterly hopeless became her state that she would have gladly gone back to the wigwams of the Indians, foolishly believing that her condition would excite their pity, had she known the way--have gone like a bleeding lamb into the den of wolves.

Slower became her journeying--fainter was her breath drawn. She could scarcely draw one poor bruised foot after the other, and it was evident even to her reeling senses that her end was very near--that she would soon have to perish in the wilderness--die alone without a single soul to pity, or kindly hand to close her eyes, and that her body would become the sport of wolves' whelps and foul carrion birds.

The idea was too horrible to be calmly endured, and a great cry of misery escaped from her fevered lips. She reeled against a tree, grasped it within her arms, and stood motionless as if turned into stone. The greatest horror of her existence had burst suddenly upon her. She saw by the dim light of the early morning that an Indian was coming toward her--knew that he had heard her screaming--knew that it was her fearful enemy, Muck-a-kee!

In an instant he was by her side and his heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder, and his harsh voice hissed into her trembling ears:

"So the pale-face thought to escape and has nearly perished in the wilderness? But she will wander no more. The wings of the dove shall be clipped so that she can not fly, and the limbs of the doe fettered so that she can not run."

"Merciful God, protect me," was all that she could gasp, as she was hurried along with more than brutal rapidity.

"The red-man has been constantly upon her trail," he continued, "since she escaped from the wigwam of old Metiz. He has followed her fast and far. Now she shall never leave his side again. Where he goes she shall go and he will make her obey."

"Where, oh, where are you going to take me?"

"Far away from even the village of his tribe. There he will keep her until her proud spirit is broken. He will tame her by hunger and thirst, and heavy loads, and the whip, and--"

"Oh, misery!"

"It is the song she will sing until death!"

Striking in a directly opposite direction to that of the encampment of the tribe, he soon emerged from the timber, and much to her comfort, even if not joy, she was lifted upon a horse and carried along until near noon. Then a swift-winged bullet suddenly put a stop to their course. It had pierced the skull of the horse, and he reared and fell backward, carrying his riders to the ground with him, and, as it appeared, crushing the Indian under him and hurling the girl to some distance, where she lay crippled, even if not dead.

Then the renegade Parsons issued from the woods, cautiously approached and crept around to obtain a better view before venturing nearer. But at length he became convinced that the Indian was powerless to do harm.

But, true to his training, the chief had counterfeited death to draw the white man to him, for, save his knife and hatchet, he was weaponless; and the instant the white man came within reach he sprung up and upon him with a yell of delight.

But, if a traitor and black-hearted villain, George Parsons was a good fighter when the test came--was muscular and desperate. He met the red warrior without flinching, and though the heavy buck-skin garments he wore protected him very much, while his antagonist was naked, save the shaggy bear-skin about his loins, yet the battle would have been a long one and doubtful had not his foot caught in a hole in the prairie, causing him to lose his balance and be thrown heavily.

Hurled backward upon the ground, the white man was at the mercy of one who never knew of such a thing, even in name, and who had many motives besides life and gaining the scalp of his enemy for winning the battle.

Quick as thought the Indian was upon the renegade, kneeling upon his arms and rendering them useless, while he felt of the point of his knife with a smile, and then ran his fingers along the ribs to make certain of the locality of the heart. But yet he hesitated to strike, and his face wore the look of the serpent when the bird is completely within its power, and it has only to dart out its forked tongue to bring death.

"Will the pale dog beg for his life?" he asked.

"Never!" was the reply of Parsons, knowing how useless it would be to do so.

"Then he will die!" hissed the Indian, "and with his bleeding scalp Muck-a-kee will deck the squaw of his race as he carries her away to be his wife."

"Devil!"

"The pale-face was a fool to think the girl would be his. She was destined from the first for the wigwam of the warrior."

"Oh! had I but known this!"

"It is too late, and he had better sing his death-song."

"Ha! ha! There comes a party of white men and the girl is rushing toward them."

For a single instant the red warrior forgot his cunning. He turned his head and somewhat loosened his hold. Parsons took advantage of it--wormed himself from under and sprung again to his feet. Never was the tide of battle more suddenly changed--never one renewed with more intense fury or more gallantly contested even though in a bad cause.

The knife of the Indian struck upon the hatchet of the white man and was shivered to the hilt. He flung the remnant aside with a curse upon the Manitou, and felt for his tomahawk. In the desperate struggle it had been loosened and fallen to the ground, and he was weaponless. With the cry of an enraged beast he closed with his antagonist, fastened his great teeth in his throat and hung on with the tenacity of a bull-dog. But it was his very last battle--his very last struggle.

Once--twice, the long knife of the white man was driven to his breast and twisted around with devilish malice. Then the set jaws relaxed--the eyes turned in their sockets, and the powerful chief of the Sioux fell backward to the earth, dead, and without a groan.

Smarting from pain--half-strangled--with the marks of teeth in his throat that he would carry to the grave, Parsons was forced to rest and take care of himself before he could even give a thought to the prize he had battled so desperately and nearly fatally for. But he hastened to tear away a portion of his garments, and having stanched the blood, crawled to where she was lying.

She saw him coming and attempted to fly--ran a little distance into the wood and then fell exhausted. Nature had already been too much overtaxed for her to endure more, and unless she could have rest and care, death would certainly follow and that at no great distance.

On gaining possession of Olive, the renegade would have instantly returned and joined his new-made friends the emigrants. But neither the captive nor himself was in a condition to do so and he was forced to remain. Yet scarcely had he fixed a place for a temporary encampment before there appeared before his startled eyes the Indian girl--Little Raven!

"The pale chief has found the squaw with the soft hair and skin like snow," she said, "and is taking her back to the wigwams of the red-man?"

"Yes--yes," he stammered, not daring to deny it.

"He has met a bear in the woods?" she asserted rather than asked.

"Yes," and he willingly enlarged upon the story that would save him from telling the truth.

"The Little Raven will dress his wounds," and having procured soft bark and gum she did so with exceeding skill.

"How came you here?" he asked.

"She was coming to meet her lover. Her heart longed for him as the deer for the salt-lick."

"For the love of heaven," exclaimed Olive, "save me from this brutal man. He has killed--"

"If the maiden of the white skin would live she must keep her tongue between her teeth," hissed the Indian girl, with a scowling face and half-drawing her knife.

"You are right, Raven," responded the renegade. "She must not speak, for she would utter nothing but lies."

"Has the pale chief visited his people and brought her present?" again questioned Little Raven.

"No. He found this girl and was hastening back to give her up to the tribe."

"And make Raven his wife?"

"Yes."

"Has he seen any thing of Muck-a-kee?"

"No."

"He is telling what is not true," interrupted Olive, "for he killed--"

"Let the pale squaw come again between the Raven and her lover and I will tear out her tongue!" and the knife of the squaw flashed so near her face that Olive shrunk back, covered her face with her hands and remained silent.

But when the squaw had gathered branches and made a shelter for Parsons and one at some distance for the white girl--when she had built a fire, cooked a little venison she had brought with her--had fed both--had steeped some roots and herbs and given the renegade to drink, she came and sat by her female companion with her drawn knife in her hand. Then once more Olive ventured to speak and ask:

"Will you not tell me what is to be done with me?"

"I will kill you as I would the rattlesnake that tried to bite me if you attempt to escape!" was the stern answer.

Another silence of an hour passed. Then the Little Raven arose and noiselessly sought the side of her pretended lover. She bent down so that her face almost touched his and listened long and earnestly, and having satisfied herself that his slumber was no counterfeit one, she returned to Olive, laid down beside her, and whispered:

"Now the pale squaw may talk. The ears of the chief are like those of the deaf adder. Little Raven is her friend. Let her tell all that has happened since she left the wigwams of the red-men."

"I thought you loved that man," replied Olive.

"I hate him, but he must not know it. Let the pale squaw open her heart, and it will be well for her," and she drew her companion to her and left a reassuring kiss upon her lips.

Then the poor prisoner did indeed open her heart and told all. The girl dashed out into the prairie and assured herself that the death of Muck-a-kee was no fable, and was consequently easily convinced of the truth of the rest, and after a little, persuaded Olive to sleep.

"The sun will again be high," she said, "before the eyes of the pale chief are open. The drink that Little Raven gave him will hold him next to death."

"And you will protect me?"

"With my life. But it will not be needed. Let her sleep."

The squaw released her from her warm embrace--drew her blanket over her head, and remained motionless for a long time. Then she cautiously arose, disappeared, and in an hour after was in the wigwam of the Burning Cloud.