Chapter VI: A Great Surprise

The Modoc Sioux seemed to know the situation of the house well and scattered the moment they reached the front, and remained still as death, waiting for the order to advance. The shutters were closed upon the windows of the cabin, and the heavy door in its place, but not a sound was heard. It was plain that the Modocs knew the desperate character of the men in the house for they made no effort to advance as yet. They were well aware of the fact that such a building defended by two such renowned Indian-fighters as the “Beaver Captain” and Old Pegs would hold out for a long time unless taken by stratagem.

They did not like the silence which reigned about the building, for it seemed to them the silence of desperation. Unwilling to waste their men, one was sent forward with a flag. He was a half-breed and spoke a sort of mixture of French and English.

“Ah, you; in ze house.”

No reply; the same dreadful silence reigned.

“Vill you open door?” cried the envoy, again. “Let us in; smoke pipe.”

Still no reply. Nothing about the house showed that a human being occupied it, and the man retreated in alarm, fearing a shot. But either the defenders considered him too insignificant to fire at or they respected a flag, even in such hands as these.

The leaders of the savages did not make their appearance, but it soon become apparent that some movement was on foot. The sound of axes could be plainly heard, and about twenty Indians appeared carrying a small tree from which the limbs had been lopped within a foot of the trunk, leaving a good hold for the hands. This was a battering ram with which to beat down the door. Keeping behind the bushes as much as possible, they reached a place within a hundred paces of the door, when they laid the log down and took breath before the final effort. A man in Indian garb with a hideously painted face directed their movements.

“Remember, sons of the Sioux,” the leader said, “that these men killed Half-breed Jack and Tuscalo. Avenge these brave men who fell for the honor of the tribe. Now!”

They took up the log and at the signal word sprung out of the thicket with the butt of the log directed toward the door. All expected to hear the rifles speak the moment they came in view, but to their utter surprise not a shot was fired and the heavy log struck the door with a dull thud. It resisted bravely, but a second blow made the bars crack and the moment after the stout door fell into the room and the course was clear. Foremost among those who poured in over the shattered door was the painted wretch who had said that Old Pegs and Dave had killed the two Sioux the day before. He held a hatchet in one hand and a pistol in the other, and uttered a cry of triumph as they entered, unopposed. But, to his dismay the place was empty! Nearly all the furniture had been removed. Even the books were gone, and those he sought had vanished utterly. Weapons in hand they rushed through the deserted rooms hoping to find the man they hated concealed somewhere, but they looked in vain. There was no door at the back of the house, and even if there had been it would have been next to impossible to climb the rugged rock in the rear of the building.

“The white men are great medicine,” said one of the Indians with a shudder. “Where have they gone?”

“We came too late,” replied the leader, angrily. “While we loitered on the way they have fled.”

“Shall we burn the house?”

“No; if you destroy the nest the birds will not return to it. Leave all as it is and some day they will come back and we shall have them.”

The Indians loitered for some time about the place, picking up such articles as suited their fancy and appropriating them without remorse. It was nearly an hour after the first assault when they made ready to depart after they had sounded the walls of the house thoroughly, seeking to fathom the mystery of the escape. They gave up in despair, and marched away through the pass, leaving the cabin in peace.

They had scarcely been gone ten minutes when Old Pegs stepped over the threshold, rifle in hand and followed on their trail. He was gone nearly half an hour, and when he returned Dave had already repaired the broken door, and replaced the furniture, while Myrtle was setting the table for a meal.

“Haw, haw, folks!” roared Old Pegs. “Did you ever see a more ’stonished set of varmints in your born days? It was ez good ez a play.”

“They were taken by surprise,” replied Dave, “but if Myrtle had not been with us I could not have resisted the temptation of giving them a shot. Rafe Norris was not with them, after all.”

“Durn him, he knowed he’d git a shot on sight and so did that cussid Velveteens. That b’ar he killed was worth a hundred sech copper-toed varmints ez him. It were murder, my boy—jest murder and nothing else.”

“Poor Bruin,” said Myrtle; “he was great company for me when you were absent, father.”

“I know he were, and he hed an advantage over some humans I’ve knowed—you c’u’d trust him! The devil won’t allus guard his own, and some day I’ll git ekal to thet Velveteens, bet yer life!”

The party reoccupied the house as a matter of course, and seemed to think nothing of the late raid. After eating a hearty meal Old Pegs started out on a scout, leaving Dave to guard Myrtle. He followed the trail of the savages by devious ways for nearly six miles over a rugged road, part of which he had never trod before.

“They’ve got a camp some’ers nigh at hand,” he muttered, “and I’m going ter find out whar it is ef it takes a leg. I know the Hudson Bay people, and I’ll be darned ef they ever sot ther men ter do this kind of work. The trail freshens a bit; I’ll hev ter look out.”

He hitched along at his usual rate of speed, throwing out his shoulders in his peculiar manner until the low murmur of voices could be heard coming up from the foot of the slope below him. Old Pegs at once left the trail and plunged into the bushes, following the sounds which he heard and advancing by slow degrees, for he knew that his life was not worth a moment’s purchase if he should be taken. But scouting was life itself to him, and he kept on until he was satisfied that he must be close upon the camp, for he was approaching a clearing of some kind.

Suddenly, almost without warning, he came to the edge of a high bluff, and parting the bushes which fringed the bank, looked down. It was one of those valleys so common among the foot-hills, and so surrounded by inaccessible mountains as to be a safe refuge.

The valley was now a great camp, for not less than two hundred men were scattered about at various points, engaged in different ways. Poker-playing seemed to be a specialty, but one ambitious individual had a “monte” game, and was throwing for the amusement and loss of a large party. Two-thirds of the whole force were Indians, to all outward appearance, but seeing a painted brave seated under a tree reading a book, convinced Old Pegs that all were not Indians who wore the garb.

The remainder of the men were of all nationalities, chiefly French Canadians and half-breeds. A very few were English, but these kept apart, and seemed to have little intercourse with the rest.

Who were these men, and what were they doing in the grounds of the North-west Company? The strife between those great monopolies, the Hudson Bay and North-west, was at this time at its hight, and Old Pegs knew who they were and what their object was in coming here.

“Thar’ll be a b’ar-fight when Dave’s boys git wind of this yer,” thought the old hunter. “It’s all fa’r, long ez they only bring whites ag’in’ whites, but when it comes ter Injuns, thet’s cutting it too fat. Oh, thunder! thar’s thet cussid Velveteens.”

It was indeed that individual, who at this moment turned so that Old Pegs had a fair view of his face. He was no longer dressed in the ragged garb which he had worn in the rescue of Rafe Norris, but in a jaunty hunting-dress with black belt and silver buckles, armed to the teeth, and looking what he really was—a desperado of the first class.

“I’d like ter pop him over,” thought Old Pegs, as he threw forward his rifle. “He sartingly desarves it. But what a wassups’ nest I’d bring about my ears ef I did shoot. Oh, you precious skunk, _don’t_ you desarve to die?”

The fingers of the old man itched to take a shot at the man who had cheated him out of his prisoner and killed the pet bear in such a cowardly way. It made his blood boil to see him swaggering about in his gaudy dress, giving orders here and there with the air of a man in authority. At length he paused and stood with one hand grasping his rifle, the hand out of the line of his body, and stooped to speak with the Indian who was reading.

“Durn him,” growled Old Pegs, “I won’t kill him, but I’ll score his knuckles for him.”

The rifle came up slowly, for he wished to make an accurate shot. Slowly, slowly, the keen eyes looking through the double sights, until the right hand of Velveteens was fully in range.

Crack!

The rifle dropped from the hand of the desperado; he uttered a wild yell of rage and pain, and the band ran up to him in wonder to find his right hand minus the index finger, which had been cut completely away by the ball. Old Pegs had clapped his hand instantly over the muzzle of his rifle, and stopped the vent, so that the smoke could not betray his presence, and without waiting to note more than that his bullet had reached the mark, plunged into the mountain defiles at the top of his speed, and, short and crooked as his legs were, that speed was something wonderful. He got over the ground at a pace which would have shamed a first-class pedestrian, taking paths which were known to but few in the mountains, over a stony way which left no trail. In the mean time, Velveteens, wild with passion, was giving vent to a series of atrocious oaths which would have disgraced a Thames barger in his most furious moods.

“Only one man in the kentry could do it,” screamed the injured man, “and that man is Old Pegs. What d’ye stand gauping at me fur, you skunks of misery? Git up thar, half a hundred of ye, and chase the old thief to his hole. I’ll give a hundred dollars to the man, white or red, that brings me his scalp.”

There were men in the party to whom a hundred dollars was ample payment for taking a human life, and in the twinkling of an eye a score of swift runners were on the track of Old Pegs.

“See here,” said one of the ruffians, “we mout ez well chase the wind. Let’s you and I git hosses and go round to his place and meet him.”

The plan pleased all, and rapidly descending the slope, four of the most desperate villains in the party mounted and rode away at a rapid trot by the shortest roads they knew, to reach the little valley in advance of Old Pegs, who they knew would return to it before the day was out. But they had eight miles to go, and the route taken by Old Pegs was only four; and when the men rode into the valley they were surprised to see the old hunter before them, running rapidly toward the house. Two or three shots were fired without effect, and Old Pegs disappeared behind the bushes. Dave Farrell heard the shots and darted out, rifle in hand, meeting his friend at the doorway.

“Only four of the cusses, Dave,” he said, contemptuously. “We ain’t going to run from sech ez they.”

“Not if we know it,” replied the young man, fitting a cap on his rifle with great care. “You take the man on the right as they come in sight, and I’ll see after the one on the left. Then get cover and load.”

The horsemen came on at a mad gallop, for they seemed to have Old Pegs in a trap. But, rounding the point of the thicket, they found themselves looking into the muzzles of two deadly rifles, and before they could even check the headlong speed of their horses, two saddles were empty and the borderers had disappeared behind the bushes. Their own rifles were empty, for they had fired at Old Pegs, and had not since loaded, but there was no time to stop and turn.

“Forward!” cried one of the men. “We are man to man.”

Seeing that they did not attempt to use their rifles, and knowing by this that the weapons were empty, Old Pegs stepped out into the open space and cried “halt!” The command enforced by the leveled revolvers was too much for the two men, and they pulled their horses to a halt.

“Git down!” was the next command. “Throw up.”

This brief speech meant that they were not only to halt, but to raise their hands above their heads. The men obeyed without demur, for, though the tone of the old hunter was quiet, they felt that it meant business and acted accordingly.

“Come hyar.”

The two ruffians marched up to the muzzles of the revolvers, each face showing that they felt the tenure of life to be precarious in a high degree. Dave Farrell came forward and took away the weapons of the two men, and bound them hand and foot, while Old Pegs overlooked the work with a cocked revolver in his hand.

“Now don’t you seem ter be a couple of low-lived galloots, you two?” growled the hunter, “don’t you seem mean ez pizen?”

They looked it certainly, and stood with downcast eyes, evidently uncertain what their fate was to be.

“You come hyar ter kill me—kill Old Pegs, a man thet hez tramped these hills for thirty year, man and boy. Didn’t you, now? String ’em up ter thet bush, Dave; we’ll make it hot fur ’em.”

The two scoundrels were stripped to the skin, and some stout switches cut, with which the ruffians were belabored until they roared for mercy. This border vengeance being accomplished, they were tied on their horses with the face to the tail, and led to the mouth of the ravine.

“You got off mighty easy this time gents,” said Old Pegs. “I’m mighty ’shamed ter let you go so easy, but don’t come ag’in. You don’t want any more off me, do you?”

“No,” replied one of the men sincerely. “I’ve got enough.”

“Well, we kin keep yer weepons to remember you by, and we’ve give you suthing to make us dear to you. Who sent you arter me?”

“Velveteens.”

“Did he know who shot at him?”

“You bet.”

“Giv’ him my love, and say I’ll meet him some day and squar’ accounts. Now git.”

A cut from the switches upon the flanks of each horse, sent them thundering down the ravine, bobbing about in a grotesque manner, to the intense amusement of the two hunters, who watched them laughingly, until they turned an angle in the pass and were lost to view.