Chapter VIII: Muck-A-Kee

Much as all had appeared to give way to the white man, in the possession of his destined bride, yet there was at least one of the red-men who looked upon him with angry eyes and her with loving ones, and who was determined that she should fill his wigwam and minister to his comfort.

Muck-a-kee, or the Bull-frog--a brave of the most undoubted courage and cunning, but brutally savage disposition, had been inflamed with her rare beauty from the moment his eyes had rested upon her, and he had marked her for his own. But he was too wise to assert his preference as long as the white man was held in so much favor.

With envious eyes he had marked the scene in the cavern, and with envious ears had heard that, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she would be given to his rival. This he swore by the Manitou should never be done.

To accomplish his ends, he enlisted the old squaws who had guard over her by means of presents, and the very night she was to have been made a wife, the girl was missing, and not a soul could be found who could, or would, give the slightest information concerning it.

The guardian squaws declared that it must have been the work of spirits--that even while their eyes were fastened upon her they heard a terrible voice calling her by name, and that she melted away into air--passed through their fingers like smoke when they attempted to hold her, and that then they were struck down and blinded as if by lightning.

The rabble believed the story--the chiefs cared nothing about her so long as she was not destined to torture--the Medicine was trying to recover his lost ground, and in fact no one but Parsons appeared to take the slightest interest in her fate. He was angry without measure, and did every thing in his power to find some clue to her whereabouts, for he knew she could only have been taken away by mortal hands. But he searched in vain. She was as securely hidden from him as if already in her grave and her fair form ashes.

The abductor had been crafty. There was no impress of her little foot upon the ground--nothing by which she could be traced. And as it had been in fact, even so had she been led to believe the purpose. Taking the place of and disguised as one of the squaws, the Indian had filled her half-distracted brain with lies--made her believe that he was the friend of the white man--intended to release her lover, and that he wished her to come and meet him. At another time she might have doubted. But now any thing that promised to free her from Parsons was eagerly snatched at, and the wily warrior carried his end with far less difficulty than he had imagined, and while the village was locked in slumber Olive stole out like a shadow, met him beyond the limits of the wigwams, submitted to be lifted in his brawny arms and carried along the bed of a creek, whose water obliterated every trace, then mounted, he riding behind, and borne swiftly to a considerable distance--where she knew not--scarcely cared, so long as it was beyond the power of the black-souled renegade.

Before daylight they had reached the top of a mountain and found a newly erected wigwam, with another standing near that showed the marks of many a storm. The former was to be her home for a time, and she saw that it had been fitted up with some effort at comfort, for it was covered with double skins and carpeted with them.

"This," said the warrior, craftily playing the part of friend and taking every possible means to gain her good-will, "is your resting place. Here you will be in the most perfect safety."

"But alone! Alone in this horrible wilderness," she gasped, trembling in every limb at the bare thought of what dangers would surround her.

"No. In the other wigwam is an old squaw who will protect and provide for you. She is very old and crippled, and sometimes not in her right mind."

"A mad-woman my sole companion!"

"She is perfectly harmless."

"And him I love?" she questioned, with her entire soul going out to the physician in his living tomb.

"Is safe, and shall soon be relieved."

"How well you talk my language."

"Muck-a-kee has been often among them, and is their friend. He will save the pale-face."

"And give him back unharmed to me? Oh! joy, joy!"

The face of the Indian darkened for a moment, and his hand sought his knife, but he had too much self-command to permit her to fathom his designs, and after turning away as if to look out, he continued:

"The heart of Muck-a-kee will be glad when the White Lily is again in the arms of the brave she loves. Her skin is as the dawn of a summer morning, her hair soft as the silk of the maize, and her eyes like the stars shining in the still water."

"And," resumed the girl, without taking the least notice of his compliments, "there will be no danger in our being followed and discovered?"

"By the one of her own race, whose heart is like that of the black snake?"

"Yes."

"When he can follow the trail of the swift-winged swallow, then he can find ours."

"That is good news. When shall he who is confined in the rocks be released?"

"As soon as the red warrior can do so without being detected. But the White Lily need not mourn. No danger can come to him, and it will be many hours before he will even suffer hunger. Let her rest in peace, and no tears stain her bright eyes."

"You are very good. How shall I ever repay you?" and she pressed his hand warmly, and looked up thankfully into his eyes.

The action still more fired his blood, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could resist the temptation to clasp her in his arms. But the time was not yet ripe for such an action, and forced to resist he turned away and called in a loud voice:

"Metiz."

After waiting for a few moments he repeated the name even yet more boisterously, and at the same time explained to the anxious girl that "Metiz" in the language of the pale-face was "Thin Stick," but that when she had occasion to address the squaw who was to guard her, she had better use the Sioux word.

Still the old woman came not, and after repeated efforts to summon her he went out grumbling--returning dragging her along, and it required a great effort for Olive to keep from screaming, so hideous was she.

How old she was no one could have determined within a score of years. Her yet plentiful hair was white as snow, as were brows and lashes, and the long growth upon the upper lip, but her eyes were black and sparkling as anthracite--looked more like the serpent's when in its deadly coil than any thing human.

She had once been tall, but her form was now nearly doubled by years and pain, though when aroused she could rise to her full hight, and her broad shoulders and large arms told of power. Her face was a mass of wrinkles. Her hands were long and the untrimmed nails gave them the appearance of the talons of some great bird. Her figure appeared to be entirely wanting flesh--to be simply a compound of skin, muscles and bones, and as she crept into the wigwam, leaning upon a huge knotted staff, her fierce manner and coarse voice and restless behavior gave her the appearance of a wild beast.

"Metiz," said the chief, "this is the girl you must guard and feed until I come back."

"Ugh!" was the only reply, but the fiery eyes that were turned upon Olive made her shudder.

"You must take good care of her, do you hear, and you shall have plenty of fire-water and tobacco."

"Ugh!"

She turned away and retreated again to her own wigwam, muttering as she went.

"For the love of heaven do not leave me alone with her," pleaded the girl.

"I will come back--"

"And bring him I love?"

"Yes, as soon as I can. But have no fear; she will do you no harm. She is old and ugly but not dangerous in the least. I must go to see that no one has found our trail."

"And if the black-hearted white man should do so?"

"This!" said the Indian, touching his knife in a manner that could not be misunderstood.

"And the one in the cave? Oh! release him quickly and I will never cease to love you."

"Your lover shall come!"

His reply was peculiarly accented, and could she have read his face, her heart would have sunk within her as deeply as it had ever done before. But it was expressionless to her eyes, and after informing her that he would give the red squaw still stronger directions to keep watch over and be kind to her, he disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Soon after she saw him mount and ride down the mountain side, and feeling worn out and in a measure at least safe, she closed the curtains of the wigwam, and nestling among the soft robes, fell asleep.

But what awoke her she could never have told. It was the mysterious influence that often gives warning of coming danger. But awake she did, and that suddenly, and a scream burst from her lips as she saw the old squaw kneeling by her side, with her face bent closely down to her own.

"Oh! heaven, what do you want?" Olive asked, shivering with undefined alarm.

"The sun is seeking to hide itself behind the western mountains, and the young squaw of the pale-faces must be hungry. Metiz has brought her food and drink."

She saw that the eyes of the hideous Indian woman were upon her, and, fearing to make her angry, she arose, and by dint of a mighty exertion of will managed to eat.

"When the squaw has lived until every thing upon earth has been dead many, many winters she will not be so dainty," resumed her guardian, with a sneering voice, and instantly dispatched the rest of the provisions very much after the manner of a starving wolf.

"But I was not very hungry," replied Olive. "It was good, very good, and I thank you. Now I will go and take a walk."

"Where would the pale-face go?" was questioned in any thing but a pleasant voice.

"Oh! just to walk around a little. I am tired of being shut up in a wigwam."

"The grave is more narrow and dark."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Olive, beginning to fear again.

"If she walks far she may find out."

"Who would do me harm?"

"The woods are filled with great bears, with snarling wolves, with panthers, and almost every rock is a den of rattlesnakes."

"Good heaven! Yet you live among them?"

"I fear them not--fear nothing--am strong and know how to take care of myself. The pale-face is weak as a little pappoose."

"Will you not go with me?"

"What if I should? Your feet are swift as those of a doe, mine heavy, as if my moccasins were lead. The chief gave her into the keeping of Metiz, and she must stay in the wigwam."

"Must?"

"Ugh."

"Do you mean that I am a prisoner?"

"Until the chief comes back."

"He brought me here to save me for--"

"Himself."

"Oh! heaven, tell me what you mean."

"He will make her his wife--will take her to his wigwam."

"Can it be possible there is such treachery? He told me he was my friend--the friend of the white man."

"Then he lied!" she hissed like an adder. "Lied like the serpent that charms the little sparrow, while guarding its young."

"But you are a woman and can save me," and she flung herself at her feet.

"Woman?" screamed the squaw with a horrible laugh that made the rocks ring. "Metiz a woman! She is a devil, and all the tribe fear her. When you have seen every thing you love--father, mother, sisters, brothers, and husband and children murdered by the pale-face; when your hair has been turned, and you have lived in a howling wilderness alone, for the Manitou only knows how many winters, what will you be then? No, the chief lied! He hates the pale-face, even as I do. But talk not to me of them--let me get out of your sight, or I might be tempted to drive a knife into your heart, even as your people did through those of mine," and she fled muttering the wildest imprecations.

Then the full horror of her situation burst upon the mind of the poor girl, and bowing her head, she wept bitter tears.

But should she wait the return of the brutal Indian? Was not any fate better than to be his wife? She had seen enough to know, in all its brutality, what it meant with one of their own race, and knew it would be infinitely worse with her. Yes, she would run away, and that quickly, forgetting what she had heard about the woods being filled with wild beasts.

She crept to the door of the wigwam and looked out--could see nothing of the fiendish old woman, and stepped to the outer side. But she had hardly passed the threshold before her grim guardian presented herself, and whirling her tomahawk, demanded her purpose.

"I was simply taking the fresh air," replied Olive, to throw her off her guard.

"Then let her lift the skins of the wigwam. To walk from it, will be to walk into her grave."

It would have been useless to attempt to either resist or argue, and the fair prisoner sauntered back, baffled for the time, but without having her purpose changed in the least. She would wait until night came, and then make another effort for freedom, even if she died in doing it. But could she escape she might release her lover, and together they could fly to safety and happiness.

The hours passed--how long and bitter to her, and night came at length. She lay upon the floor of the wigwam with the curtain slightly raised, peering out at the other, and listening, as she had never done before, to every sound. At length she became convinced that the dreadful old crone had gone to rest, and wrapping her garments closely around her, she stepped forth to the long coveted freedom--the blessed boon she had never had the least idea of before. Her heart beat with lightning-like rapidity--she seemed to tread upon air! Then a heavy hand was laid upon her, she was hurled backward, and a croaking, angry voice breathed in her ears:

"The pale-face squaw would run away, and must die!"

"Mercy."

"Did her race show any mercy to mine? Did they spare a single one? My brain is mad with blood. Every thing is red--red!"

Poor Olive! She saw in the semi-light, the flash of a long knife, the gleaming of the terrible eyes, burning with madness--saw the long, skinny arm that was raised to give strength to the blow--exerted all her own. With the power of despair she struggled to her feet, and grappled with the murderess. They fell together. An iron grasp was fastened upon her slender throat, and she knew her last hour had come. But with a mighty effort she tore loose, and disappeared in the darkness down the steep mountain side--fled she knew not whither, with many an arrow whistling over her head.

And soon she would have paused for rest, for she had often fallen and was sorely bruised, had she not fancied that she heard the tread of a swiftly-ridden horse, and believed the false-hearted Indian was upon her track, or at least soon would be. Nerved by this, she pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the fastness of the forest, tumbling over rocks, tearing her dress and soft flesh upon the sharp thorns, creeping among the tangled roots, with the face scratched by the low-growing branches, and her feet cut, and numbed, and bleeding. Onward till she could do no more, and sunk down as if ready to die.

A low but startling growl aroused her. She looked wildly around, and saw, to her horror, the form of some beast crouching upon a limb above her, ready for its spring--saw the great mouth, the long, sharp teeth, the blood-red tongue, the eyes like balls of fire--knew that a panther had trailed her--would instantly leap upon and tear her to pieces, and with a great cry of agony fell insensible to the ground.