Chapter XIV: Plotting

"Naudoway--see!" had been the exclamation of the brother of the Burning Cloud when he dashed almost breathless into her wigwam and flung himself panting upon the floor.

She did not question further at the time. The word 'enemy' convinced her, as she had before believed, that the renegade Parsons had proved as treacherous to her nation as he had been to his own, and with the remarkable patience of her race she waited for further revelation, brought water and bathed the feet of the nearly exhausted runner, gave him food and stimulating drinks, and then filled, lighted and handed him a pipe.

"The trail of my brother has been long and swift. He has known neither rest or sleep. Will he tell his sister what he has seen?"

He related the story, taking a long time for what could have been condensed into a few words. He had followed the white man--had seen him camp with a number of his own race--armed men--with plenty of wagons and horses--had told them a false story about his wife having been captured by the red-men and that she was destined to die of torture. And, believing this, they had promised to come and help kill the entire tribe and rescue her. But he was to come first--they follow more slowly and wait in ambush until he gave the signal. Then they were to rush forward, pour in their murderous rifle-shots and slaughter indiscriminately men, women and children.

"Is that all?" questioned the girl, trembling with suppressed passion.

"Yes?"

"Does any one know of this?"

"No one but you and the Manitou."

"Then keep it hidden within your heart. Keep it until the Burning Cloud tells you to speak, and the dearest wish of your heart shall be gratified."

"Does she know?" he began asking, in confusion.

"She knows that you love the Little Raven, and she shall certainly be yours."

"But the pale-face?"

"The Raven _hates_ him," and then, under her breath, "even as I love another."

"My sister will keep her promise?"

"Before the moon of the falling leaf, she shall be singing sweet songs of love in your wigwam, and for your ear alone."

"It is enough. No torture shall cause my lips to be opened to any but you."

He passed out, and as soon as he had disappeared, the squaw took from her neck the richest string of wampum she possessed. She had destined it to be the brightest ornament at her own bridal. It was one she had woven for that express purpose. Muffling it in her blanket, she walked slowly to the home of the Little Raven, and there being no one else in the wigwam, she laid it in the lap of her friend, and said, in a mysterious whisper: "This from the Young Bear!"

The eyes of the Raven flashed with as much delight as surprise. Among all the braves she would have chosen the brother of the Burning Cloud for a lover. She turned the trinket over and over, and the visitor fancied at first it would be rejected; but when she saw it pressed warmly to her lips, and placed next to her heart, she was satisfied, and boldly proclaimed the secret object of her mission.

"The false-hearted pale-faced lover of the Raven is coming back to croak into her ears his lying words. She must meet him, pretend still to love him, lure him on, see that he does not turn aside from the trail, and let the Burning Cloud know all he says and does. Then she will see that no other eyes than hers look into the heart of the Young Bear, and that he sings into no other ears than hers. He will yet be a great chief, and his name be sung in the councils of the nation."

Wild with delight at the prospect, the young and passion-swayed squaw was ready to promise any thing, and, after listening to the instructions of her wiser and sharper sister, she at once took the trail, and was seen no more in the village until she came back bursting with the news of the death of Muck-a-kee, and the capture of the white girl by the renegade lover.

The Burning Cloud inquired very minutely into all the particulars, and her face glowed with gratitude and smiles as she learned how fate had favored her.

"But, will the pale-face sleep until the Raven returns again?" she asked.

"He drank deeply of the leaves that take away all feeling," was the reply, "and the sun will be above the tree-tops before his eyes are open again."

"And the squaw with the skin like the snow?"

"She is worn to a shadow, and so tired, her moccasins would grow faint, be the trail ever so short."

"It is well. Let the Raven go sleep."

Left alone, the Burning Cloud pondered long and deeply upon her course. The skein was twisted, and she saw no way of unraveling it. The motives that swayed her were various, and each was strong. Love was the master passion, and if driven to extremity, she would sacrifice every thing to that. But revenge upon the renegade was burning strongly within her soul, and longed to be satisfied with blood. As for the beautiful Olive, gratitude to the physician would do very much for him, but yet she had no very strongly marked interest in her fate, save that she would keep her from torture.

The web was indeed strangely interwoven with bright and dark threads, and she knew not which way to turn to clear the meshes to her satisfaction. Had she known of the fate of the scout--as she did subsequently--all would have been plain. Now she was groping in the dark. But she had to decide quickly, and after all the time that could be possibly given to thought she took to the forest, trusting to chance.

Midnight had long since faded into the small hours, and knowing that it would require all of her exertions to reach the spot--to which she had been directed by the Little Raven--before the dawn, she ran as rapidly as her strength would permit. Her keen eyes, trained to the darkness, enabled her to find the way when another would have been at fault, and she was rapidly putting the miles behind her when she came to a little spring that bubbled forth in the center of a dense thicket, and paused to quench her thirst and obtain a little rest. But even as she did so she became aware that something was crashing along behind her and--it might be man or beast--she drew back, hoping to escape unnoticed.

Vain hope! A black figure almost instantly stopped by her side, and an angry voice hissed into her ears--a voice that she knew but too well:

"So you have come to meet your pale-face lover?"

"The trail is open and my foot is free," she replied. "Who dare stop me?"

"I dare."

"By what right?"

"Though you have refused to be my wife yet the honor of the tribe is mine, and you shall not disgrace it."

"Honor?" and she started as if serpent-stung.

"Ay, honor," he replied, knowing full well that the word would reach her heart more painfully than a knife would have done. "The words of the pale-face are ever false. They whisper lies into the ears of the red-men--they trail them on to shame, and when they are asked for the father of their children they can only bow their heads into the dust."

"Burning Cloud is the daughter of a great chief," she answered, drawing herself up proudly. "He who couples her name with disgrace must beware!" and she half-drew her knife.

He knew as well as she did her pride of birth, and was determined to sting her upon the most tender point.

"The daughter of a chief when she stoops to love an enemy is worse than any other."

"Who says I have done so?"

"The whole tribe."

"Then some serpent has hissed the venom in their but too willing ears."

"It is the scout, Beaver Tail, though he stole the name like a thieving dog, that she loves."

"Well?"

"He has a wife in every tribe."

"It is false as the heart of the Wahkan Shecha."

"The Evil Spirit has poisoned her ears so that she can not tell the straight trail from the crooked one."

"Who says he has a wife in every tribe?" she questioned, fiercely.

"And when sleep has fallen upon the eyes of the red-man she steals out to meet him," he continued, without giving the slightest heed to her question.

"May the Manitou curse and palsy the lips that dare to utter such lies!" and her eyes rayed out dangerous flashings.

"But the warriors will find his trail and then he will die."

"He does not fear to do so."

"Does the Burning Cloud believe the words he whispers in her ears as she lies in his arms and gives her lips to his kisses?"

Every fiber in her frame quivered with passion, and the mastery by which she restrained herself was wonderful. He had heaped upon her the deepest insults she had ever received, but she was determined to bide the time when she could safely repay them with compound interest. Now she had other ends in view--from policy restrained her impetuous temper and he went on:

"The name of the nation is blackened by Burning Cloud."

"Her trail has ever been open."

"It is hidden like that of the mole."

"What would he have her do?"

"Tell the red warriors where the dog of a pale-face is hidden, and give him up to torture."

"Well?"

"Then let her choose a husband of her own people."

"Which means you!"

He saw that she had craftily read his purpose even before he had spoken of it, and went on even more bitterly than before.

"When the children cry for the father they shall never see and beg for bread--"

She spat in his face before he could finish the sentence, so intense was her passion. Her entire soul was up in arms and she hissed back:

"Oh, that I were a man but for a moment that I might cram the foul words down your throat and tear out your lying tongue!"

He laughed tauntingly and she proceeded:

"But, woman as I am, if you dare repeat your words or say aught against my honor I will do my best to brain you on the spot and let out your black blood for the cubs of the wolf to lap and grow fat on."

"She should have been a brave," he sneered.

"I am brave. Stand aside and let me pass."

"Listen to me," and he would have placed his hand upon her arm had she not drawn back. "You shall never be the wife of the pale-face--never see him again. I have long sought for this hour and now you shall swear by the great Manitou to be mine or--"

"When you can make the mountains bow down to the valleys, then I will be your wife, but until then, never."

"Because you love the pale-face?"

"Because I hate you!"

"And you shall have reason. Not far from here is the home of the rattlesnakes. Burning Cloud knows it well. If she will not be my wife I will throw her into their midst and none will ever know of her fate. Thousands of forked tongues will be darted at her--thousands of poisoned fangs be buried in her flesh--thousands of slimy bodies crawl over and around her while still living!"

"I would rather die even thus than become your wife," she cried as she sprung upon him, as suddenly and fiercely as does the mountain-cat upon the one who would rob her of her young.

Taken entirely by surprise the Indian received a severe wound in his shoulder before he could defend himself, and then, his anger at white heat, he grappled with the squaw and endeavored to master her. It was some time however before he could disarm her, gain possession of her hands and hold them. Then they stood face to face, she completely powerless to either injure or escape.

"Now," he asked, triumphantly, "will she promise to become his wife?"

"Never!"

"Then by the Manitou he will give her to the serpents!"

She shuddered at such a terrible fate and made the most desperate efforts to escape. And he found it most difficult to drag her along. But he succeeded in doing so, inch by inch and foot by foot until at last they stood above the terrible den.

"For the last time," he asked, "will you be my wife?"

What should she answer? She could distinctly hear the clashing of countless rattles--could smell the foul odors--could see the flashing of myriads of lidless eyes--the vibrating of the forked tongues that played like lambent lightning. For all the darkness around she could see the scaly folds of the numberless savage reptiles, that, disturbed by their footsteps, wormed in a living mass like boiling waves breaking upon some rocky beach. Horrible--the like of which earth holds not, and what could she do to avert such a fate?

Renounce the scout--perjure her very soul and become the wife of the one she not only detested but who would even thus dastardly seek to make her his own? The bare thought nerved her to even greater strength, and the battle became fierce indeed.

Then, when the Indian had succeeded in dragging her to the very verge of the rocky den, a strange light burst suddenly upon their eyes, and he drew her to him, and grasping her throat, almost strangled her in his efforts to keep her silent. A light flashed upon them--the report of a rifle was heard, and, with a mighty groan the treacherous Indian sunk backward to the ground.

A rush through the bushes was heard--a little party of white hunters who were out 'shining deer,' appeared upon the scene, and one exclaimed triumphantly:

"Buck or doe, my boys, it was my shot."

"Great Heaven!" replied the one who carried the torch; "you have killed an Indian!"

"An Indian? You must be mad."

"Look for yourself."

"God forgive me, it is true. I would have sworn it was the eyes of a deer I shot at."

"You are not the first man who has been deceived in the same way. But, what shall we do with the poor devil? It won't answer to have this known. Hark! What sound is that? A rattlesnake den as I am a sinner! Here is the opening. In with him, men."

It was soon done. Though he was already dead, his body found the same resting place he would have given her living one, and that portion of the party who had promised to assist the renegade Parsons (and were waiting for him) hastily decamped.

Of the Burning Cloud they knew nothing. The instant the iron hand unclasped from her throat she had skulked into the bushes and darted swiftly away.