Chapter X: On the Trail. a Treacherous Act

“Boys,” said Old Pegs, “they’ve got her, de’d or alive, and we’ve got to find out which—to resker her ef she’s alive and to revenge her ef she’s dead. Duz thet kind ov tork please you?”

The men did not speak, but he read in their eyes that they would be with him to the death. He beckoned them to follow, and entered the cabin, tearing down the curtain which concealed the recess in which Myrtle had slept. He caught hold of the bed and gave it a swing, and, turning as if upon a pivot it showed the opening and the steps leading downward.

“Two or three of you come with me,” said Old Pegs. “I don’t want too many; they’ll spile the trail.”

They ran down the steps and entered the little passage which led to the cave. The place was dark, but Old Pegs took a taper from the wall and lighted it.

“I called her and she didn’t answer so I didn’t stay to light up,” he said. “Let’s see what all this amounts to.”

The moment the taper was lighted the men uttered cries of surprise, for there, close against the wall, lay the man called Velveteens, bathed in blood.

“I’ll bet a thousand dollars the gal killed him,” cried Old Pegs, as he turned the villain over on his back. “Thar’s the mark of her bullet, but—thunder! He’s got a knife in his breast.”

It was true. A long knife had pierced the bosom of Velveteens, just above the collar-bone, and slanting downward. The hand which planted that knife knew how to direct a fatal blow. The rifle-ball had pierced him through the neck but such a wound was not necessarily fatal, and the knife had finished the bloody work.

“The gal never done that,” said one of the men. “Seems ter me thar’s life in the low cuss, old man.”

“Giv’ us yer flask, then. Whisky’ll bring this critter out of his grave a’most. He don’t desarve it but I want ter question him a bit before he goes under.”

The man handed over the flask, and Old Pegs bathed the lips of the wounded wretch with the strong liquor, and raising his head managed to get a little down his throat. A moment after he gave a gasp and his eyes flared open, gazing with a wild look upon the faces bent above him.

“Whar am I?” he gasped. “Oh, I know now; I’ve got my gruel.”

“You ain’t got long ter live, Velveteens,” said Old Pegs, “and yer mout ez well make a clean breast of it.”

“I’ll tell,” he muttered. “Give me some more whisky—I want strength.”

A few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor gave him life and he spoke more freely.

“Rafe Norris hez got her, curse him!”

“Whar is he?”

“Up among the foot-hills—by the Spirit Spring.”

“Ho; thet’s it, eh? Did the gal do this?”

“She shot me,” gasped the dying man, “and Rafe—thought I’d die—and stabbed—me—the dog—let him die—a dog’s—death! Curse him, dead or alive!”

As he spoke he caught the knife by the handle and drew it from the wound. A great gush of black blood followed, and Velveteens, the henchman of Rafe Norris who had done his evil work for many a year was dead.

“Tell yer what, boys,” said Old Pegs, “this man wouldn’t ’a’ died ef he’d bin let alone. Thet shot through the neck wouldn’t ’a’ killed him by no means, but the dirty thief hed done with him and so finished him. Now then, lift him up and we’ll plant him outside. He ain’t going ter stay hyar, ye know.”

They lifted the limp and bleeding form and carried it up the steps into the open air. Little time was spent upon his burial; a shallow trench was dug in which they laid him in his blood, and heaped the fresh earth above him as quickly as they could.

“We’ll go back to camp,” said Old Pegs. “It’ll take all the boys ter do this job, but they’ll do it right smart. Come on.”

They sprung into their saddles and rode back to the camp of the brigade, and the word passed from man to man that the outlaws had taken Myrtle, the beautiful child of the old hunter. Not a man in the brigade but had chivalry enough in his nature to peril his life for the girl, and they hailed with delight the order to march. Dave Farrell led them, a look of stern determination upon his handsome face. Woe to Rafe Norris if they met to-day!

They knew the ground well where the enemy had made a shelter, and that it was a natural fortress, from which it would be no child’s play to drive a party of determined men. Yet they cared not for the danger or difficulty, but were stirred—one and all—by the impulse to save Myrtle at whatever cost.

An hour’s march brought them to the foot-hills, at a point where the hand of Nature had hurled the rocks together in grand confusion, piling rock on rock, forming a grand barricade which it seemed impossible to scale. As they approached the dark defile which formed the only entrance to this gloomy place, Dave Farrell touched Old Pegs upon the arm.

“There is the scene of our first battle, old man,” he said. “Rafe Norris is too old in mountain lore to leave such a place undefended. Call the men to a halt, Jim,” he added aloud, speaking to his second in command.

He had scarcely spoken when a mounted man shot out of the dark defile, followed by another and another, until eight horsemen, mounted admirably and armed to the teeth, were seen to form under the rocky wall. Enemies as they were Dave could not but admire the manner in which they fell into line, nor doubt that they were fearless and well-trained men. No time was wasted and no questions asked, for, as this body of brave men began to form, the trappers spread out to left and right and opened a telling fire upon them at the distance of three hundred yards. Massed as they were against a wall of gray rocks, upon which their forms stood out in bold relief, there was no such thing as missing, and their men were dropping on every side under the murderous fire before they were ready for the charge and the command to advance rung out. The same command might have served for the brigade for they closed in at the same moment, slung their rifles, drew their revolvers and charged!

An equal number of the most daring fighters, the best horsemen and best armed must make a terrible fray, and one or the other must break soon. It was the band of Rafe Norris which “could not stand the pressure,” and after a bloody engagement of five minutes’ duration, during which many a blow was given and taken and many revolvers emptied—not without effect, the broken band of Norris reeled backward and fled for the entrance of the ravine, with the men of the brigade upon their haunches. The deep glen swallowed them up, when, as if by magic, the entrance to the glen bristled with lances held by Indians, who well know how to use them, forming an impenetrable obstacle to any further advance.

A single shout from Dave Farrell and his men broke to left and right, one half led by Old Pegs and the other by himself, and making a circuit they met upon the spot where the battle had commenced.

“Hot work, boys,” said Dave as he passed his hand across his heated brow. “If it had not been for those cursed lances we would have been on their cruppers yet, but no horsemen in the world could break through those lances as they are posted now; but we can drive them out.”

“I’ll take the job,” said Old Pegs. “I only want ten men.”

“Take them,” cried Dave, shortly, “and when the pass is clear signal us to advance.”

Old Pegs picked out his men and rode away at a cracking pace, accompanied by two men to bring back the horses. In the meantime the British force were grouped in the rear of their Indian allies, ready to meet the attack should the enemy attempt to break through. What was their surprise to see the trappers dismount and begin to lounge about, just out of rifle range, making no effort to advance.

“They’ve sent for help, I reckon,” said a dark-browed, ruffianly looking fellow who had command of the whites in the detachment who guarded the pass. “What d’ye say, Injun?”

Injun John, who since the death of Half-breed Jack had command of the Sioux, nodded gravely in reply.

“He has gone for Whirlwind and the Blackfeet. Wagh; the Sioux do not fear the Blackfeet dogs.”

“That must be it,” replied the white leader, evidently puzzled, “but I don’t know why he took twelve men with him. We might make another dash at them, boys.”

“No you don’t!” replied one of the men. “I didn’t enlist for this sort of work, and though I’ll go as far as any man in the interest of the Company, I don’t feel called on to lose my scalp.”

“You’re a dreadful cautious boy, Ned,” said the leader. “So cautious that it looks almost like cowardice.”

“I think I can _prove_ I ain’t a coward,” said the man addressed, drawing a revolver and covering the form of his leader. “Back yer opinion, Jim Diggs; draw iron.”

“I cave!” said Jim Diggs, waving aside the obnoxious weapon. “I didn’t say you was a coward, but I said you was dreadful cautious—and so you be.”

“Caution is a good thing ain’t it, Jim?” said the man, still covering him with the deadly weapon.

“Caution is bully!” was the reply of Jim Diggs; “don’t p’int that thing at me—it might go off.”

The man returned the weapon to his belt, satisfied with the lesson which he had given, but certain at the same time that he would have to answer for the act at some future day. The Indians looked calmly on, expecting a fray, and were rather disappointed when they saw Jim Diggs bottle up his wrath and say no more.

The position they occupied was a strange one. The pass was not more than twenty paces wide, bordered by perpendicular rocks twenty feet high without lateral passes on either side. No movement was made by the trappers, and their enemies did not care for another close grapple by daylight. An hour of inaction passed, and the ruffians began to gather courage and talk of another attack.

“Say,” cried a voice overhead. “Won’t you please go ’way frum hyar? I ask it on my knees.”

They looked up and saw Old Pegs standing calmly on the summit of the rock, looking earnestly down at them.

“Won’t you _please_ go ’way?” he repeated. “We wanter come through this yer pass, ourselves.”

“Why don’t you come, then?” demanded Jim Diggs, restraining some of his companions who were about to fire on the old hunter.

“Acause you’ve got some chaps down thar with long poles, and the cattle kain’t come through,” replied Old Pegs.

“That’s bad!” said Jim Diggs, “and they are a dreadful obstinite lot of men, too, and I’m afraid they’ll want to stay whar they are.”

“Can’t we persuade ’em ter go ’way?” said Old Pegs.

“I’m afraid not, old man.”

“I’ll try what _I_ kin do!” roared Old Pegs. “Go to work, boys.”

The ravine was narrow as we have said, and the sides very precipitous. The old man suddenly disappeared, and scarcely had he done so when the sky began to rain large stones about the size of a man’s head, which came rattling down about the skulls of the enemy in a dreadfully unpleasant way, while nothing could be seen of the men who were throwing them, and who lurked far enough back of the verge to be out of range.

“Kain’t we persuade yer?” yelled Old Pegs, as stone after stone came crashing down. “Oh, yes, we kin. Git up and dust, you scum of mortality. You children of evil, _git_!”

It was death to remain, for, hemmed in that narrow pass, while the rocks continued to come down like rain upon their heads, four men already lay dead, and others were desperately wounded, while the mocking laughter of the trappers, perched upon the rocks, rung in their ears. Worst of all, they could not see their assailants, who prudently kept back out of reach while they continued to send the stones flying over into the pass.

There was nothing for it except retreat, for no man could live long under that terrible avalanche. There seemed to be no lack of ammunition, for the hail-storm increased instead of diminished. Having done all that men could do, they retreated, and Old Pegs signaled the trappers from the top of the rocks. They at once threw themselves into the saddle and came on at a mad gallop. As the Hudson Bay men showed a disposition to return, those on the rocks took their rifles and gave them two withering volleys, which quickly sent them back into the valley beyond. Running along the crest of the ravine at the head of his men, Old Pegs gained a position from which he could guard the advance of his friends at little hazard to himself. The enemy were now hastily retreating across the valley, moving toward a dark pass two or three miles distant, where they proposed to make another stand. Old Pegs rapidly descended the rocks and joined his friends, as they debouched from the ravine, with Dave Farrell at their head.

“Well done, Old True Blue!” he said. “That trick saved us twenty men, at least.”

“We hain’t got men to spare, either,” replied Old Pegs. “Them devils kin fight, and you bet yer life they _will_ fight, too, cuss ’em. Thet pass they ar’ gittin’ inter now is mighty strong.”

“Can’t we turn it, as we did the last?”

“Ska’cely! They won’t be sech durned fools this time, and we may kalkilate on finding some of ther men roosting on the sides of the ravine, ef we play thet game. ’Sides thet, the pass is wider, and they could keep away from the stuns.”

“Then we must attack them in front,” said Dave, quietly. “I’ll back my boys to do the work clean.”

“I guess we kin do better’n thet,” replied the old hunter. “Whar’s my hoss? What wuz it old Solomon said ’bout a beggar on hossback, eh? I’m one ov them chaps myself, jest now, but I feel more at hum. Hold on; what d’ye say ef I go out and hev a talk with them critters?”

“It might do some good, but I doubt it,” replied Dave.

“I guess I’ll try it. They hev hed a right smart chaince ter know what kind of stuff we ar’ made of, and mebbe they’ve got enuff. Anyhow, I kin only try it. Who’s got a han’kercher? Don’t all speak ter onc’t, ’cause I knows yer don’t blow yer noses onc’t a week. Not thet one, Granny; they’ll think it’s a black flag and shoot at me. No, Pipes, old boy; they’d kick on thet, too; they’ll think it’s a battle-flag, full ov holes. Hyar’s one will do.”

He took the handkerchief which Dave presented, fastened it on a ramrod and rode away toward the pass. At first the Indians showed a disposition to fire at him, but at a word from the man who acted as leader of the whites, Jim Diggs, they lowered their weapons, and the leader stepped a few paces to the front and waited for the coming of the hunter, who rode on, shaking out his hastily-improvised flag.

“Hullo, Jim,” he said, coolly. “Durn my cats ef I’ve seen ye sence the day Captain Burns hed ye hosswhipped out’n Laramie fur stealing his blankets. I’m mighty glad ter see ye.”

“Play yer game a little more keerful, old man,” said Diggs, playing with the butt of his revolver. “I kain’t ante or foller suit when ye lead that way.”

“_Pass_ it, then,” replied Old Pegs; “but don’t try ter skeer me by laying hands on a weepen, or I’ll come down on yer like a roaring lion and devour ye, body and bonos. I’m mighty hungry, anyhow.”

“This ain’t business,” replied Diggs, seeing that bravado was of no avail. “What d’ye mean by pitching inter us, this way?”

“Jimmy—Jimmy Diggs!” said Old Pegs, “whatever ye do, play fa’r. Didn’t you try to wipe us out, over north, night afore last?”

“I guess you’ve made a mistake, old man. We don’t seek to harm no one.”

“No more Velveteens didn’t, nor yet Rafe Norris, eh? Come, Jim, don’t be so cussid foolish. Whar’s my gal?”

“Your gal! I dunno what ye mean; we hain’t got no gal, ez I knows on.”

“Mebbe I’d better ask yer another question. Whar’s Rafe Norris?”

“Dunno any such person,” replied Jim Diggs, quietly.

“You don’t?”

“No sirree; ain’t no sech person in this yer camp, nor yet no Velveteens. I guess you’ve barked up the wrong tree, boss.”

“It seems as ef we didn’t understand one another’s game,” said Old Pegs, frowning. “Now look yer: I want to know whar Rafe Norris is—the man thet stole my gal. You know who I mean durned well, you cussid skunk, and you’d better tell me now while I keep my temper.”

“Don’t know any Rafe Norris.”

“Whar is Curly-headed Ned, then? Does thet seem ter suit yer complaint?”

Jim Diggs started and turned pale, as the old hunter pronounced that name. It told him that he was not to be deceived, and that he knew well the character of Rafe Norris.

“You size my pile, Old Pegs,” said Diggs, quietly. “I know _that_ name well enough, and I kin find him mighty easy.”

“Find him, then.”

Diggs turned about and whistled, and a man showed himself at the mouth of the pass.

“The capt’in,” cried Diggs. “Say Old Pegs wants ter see him.”

The man disappeared, and ten minutes later a man rode out of the pass, at the sight of whom Old Pegs loosened his revolver in his belt, while an ominous look passed over his face. It was Rafe Norris, clad in a half-Indian garb, with a plumed head-dress flaunting the eagle-feather of a chief. It was a strangely picturesque garb, and he looked noble in it, wicked man as he was. There was a look of reckless daring on his face as he dashed up.

“Ho, Old Pegs,” he said. “My worthy father-in-law that is to be, I greet you. To what may I ascribe the honor of this meeting?”

“Don’t chaff any more then you kin help, Rafe, acause I ain’t in the right temper ter b’ar it. You lying skunk, whar is my gal, Myrtle?”

“Safe enough, my dear sir, safe enough,” replied Rafe. “I have come to the conclusion that you are not the right person to take charge of a beautiful girl like Myrtle, and so I have taken her off your hands. You ought to be thankful for it.”

“I want that gal, Rafe Norris.”

“So do I!” replied Norris, calmly. “Let us understand one another, my good old friend. I love that girl and intend to make her my wife. I love her so well that nothing earthly, past, present or to come, can turn me from my purpose. The fear of death, all that any enemy can do, weigh as feathers in the balance against my love for her, and I will not give her up. I have another reason, too, which I will not tell you now.”

“You’d ruther die, eh?” cried Old Pegs, in a tone of deadly fury. “Then stand out thar like a man, take yer rifle and fight it out.”

“Thanks,” replied Rafe. “I’d much prefer not to do that. But, don’t you want to see your child?”

“Yes,” replied Old Pegs.

“You shall. Now Jim! Down with him.”

And regardless of the flag, the two men threw themselves upon Old Pegs and attempted to bear him to the earth.