Chapter VII: Catching a Tartar

A week passed by, and nothing more was heard of the band who had made their camp in the valley which Old Pegs had reached upon the day when he tried his skill upon Velveteens. They had decamped suddenly, and where they had gone and what they meant to do was still a subject of debate. Old Pegs did not give up his caution, and never entered the passes without first satisfying himself that they did not conceal an enemy. But, as day after day passed, and nothing suspicious occurred, he began to think that all was safe.

“Tell you what it is, Dave,” he said. “You seem to hev forgotten thet thar is sech a thing ez a trapping-brigade in the world; by gracious, yes.”

Dave looked a little disconcerted; for, to tell the truth, he had not been able to break away from Myrtle, who seemed more beautiful day by day.

“I—I did not like to go away while there was danger,” he stammered.

“Jess so; but that bird won’t fight no longer, and I guess you’d better go down and see the boys. I don’t keer ef I go with you.”

“And leave Myrtle alone?”

“She knows what ter do ef any one comes,” replied Old Pegs. “Don’t you, gal?”

“I am not afraid,” was the reply. “Besides, I don’t think that we shall be troubled any more.”

“Perhaps not, but it is best to be on the safe side. Keep a bright look-out, and if you see any one, let them find an empty house.”

“I will keep my carbine handy, too,” replied the spirited girl. “But, father is right, Dave; you have a duty to perform, and have no right to leave it for me. I like to have you attend to the work which is given you to do.”

Old Pegs prudently departed, and the lips of the lovers met in a long, clinging kiss. Then she pushed him away with a hightened color, and watched them as they passed out of the valley, leaving her alone. She missed the tame bear greatly, for, in her solitary hours she had derived much amusement from his antics. The day passed slowly, although much of it was spent in study. After dinner she look her carbine—a weapon with the use of which she was familiar—and leaving the house went up the mountain in pursuit of game. An antelope was not long in presenting itself, and quickly fell before her unerring aim. Loading again she was engaged in putting on a cap, when two men suddenly started up in the sage-bush beside her, in the foremost of whom she recognized Velveteens—his hand bound up in a bloody cloth. The other was an Indian in the dress of the Modoc Sioux.

“Hyar’s luck, Anatole!” bawled Velveteens. “Little gal, how ar’ ye?”

“None the better for meeting you,” she replied, with her hand still upon the lock of the carbine, which she cocked by a quick movement. “What do you want?”

“Nothin’, nothin’, gal; only we’d like to hev ye take a walk with us. Thar’s a young man in our camp lit’rally spilin’ to see ye.”

“I am afraid he will ‘spile’ altogether, then,” she answered, “for I am not going with you.”

“Ho, ho, ho! jest hear her, Anatole! Ain’t she a bu’ster and no mistake? I’ll back that gal,” he continued in a tone of great admiration, “ag’inst any gal in these hyar foot-hills—ag’in the world! But, ye’ve got to go, little gal; we kain’t git along without ye.”

“You will be obliged to do so, let me tell you,” she answered, in the same undaunted tone. “I am not going with you, at any rate.”

“Ketch hold ov her, Anatole!” replied Velveteens. “I’d do it myself but my hand ain’t railly well yit.”

The Indian made a step in advance but halted quickly as Myrtle lifted the carbine and pointed it at his naked breast. There was a look in her face which he did not like and which puzzled him for he had seldom met a white girl who could use a rifle.

“What ar’ ye doin’ girl?” roared Velveteens. “P’int thet thing another way; it mout go off an’ hurt the Injun.”

“It _will_ go off if he takes another step,” she answered, in the same cool tone she had used throughout. “I do not intend to become your prisoner.”

The face of the Indian turned to a sickly white, for he saw death in the eyes of this brave young girl. Velveteens was startled, too, and began to think that it might not be so easy to capture her as he had imagined.

“Take keer!” he cried. “Ef ye hurt the Injun b’ar in mind that I am hyar and kin make ye trouble. Jump at her, Anatole; she kain’t hit ye.”

The Indian made a leap and instantly fell, shot through the shoulder. The ball had no sooner left the barrel than Velveteens bounded forward with a panther-like spring, but stopped in dismay as he met the shining barrel of a cocked revolver pointed at his head.

“Back!” she cried, sternly; “fall back, I say! I would not have your blood upon my hands, but for my honor’s sake I would kill a hundred such men and think I had done the world good service. Put up your hands! If you try to draw a weapon I will kill you. Up; higher still!”

The ruffian hesitated, but, as she was about to fire, he raised his hands quickly at their full stretch and she advanced with the revolver pointed at his heart and her finger on the trigger and took his revolvers from his belt and dropped them on the sod. His knife and hatchet followed and she stepped back a little, still transfixing him with her eyes.

“Fall back a little,” she said.

“But, Miss—”

“Fall back! I will not bid you three times before I fire.”

He stepped back about six paces, when she again called him to a halt and advancing, picked up the weapons he had dropped and hurled them down a deep ravine close at hand. The weapons of the Indian followed, rifle and all, and the two were weaponless and at the mercy of a girl.

“You have made a slight mistake in the character of the woman with whom you are dealing, my good sir,” she said. “Send that Indian away; he is not so badly wounded but he can walk.”

“What ar’ ye goin’ to do?”

“Obey my orders; I am not here to answer questions.”

“You kin go back to camp, Anatole,” said Velveteens, “but don’t you say any thing about this yer or I’ll kill ye when I come back; now ye hear me.”

The Indian staggered to his feet and hurried away down the mountain path.

“I won’t forgit this yer, gal,” said Velveteens, in a tone of deadly menace, “you may be right sure of that.”

“I don’t mean that you shall, sir,” she answered, calmly. “There is the antelope I have killed which I wish to have carried home. Pick it up and go in front.”

“Do you think I’m a pack-mule?” he roared, angrily.

“Your ears are long enough and your skull does not want in thickness, but it is not proof against a bullet, as you will find if you do not obey me at once,” was the answer. “Do not waste any time, sir, I have none to lose.”

Groaning in spirit but seeing no way out of his dilemma, the scoundrel picked up the carcass of the antelope and led the way down the hill, while Myrtle followed closely, holding her revolver ready. Once or twice he was tempted to drop his load and take the chances of a bullet, but when he remembered the fall of Anatole he dared not attempt it. Yet his pride as a mountaineer was touched to the quick, and he treasured up the malice of his heart.

“I’ll git even with you yit, my gal,” he thought. “Who’d hev thought she’d turn on a man with shootin’-irons? Thunder! I dassent show my head in camp ef this yer is found out.”

It was nearly an hour’s walk to the cabin, but she would neither suffer him to pause nor lay down his load. At last they went down the path into the valley and he dropped his burden at the door.

“Thanks,” she said. “I was afraid I should be obliged to leave the greater part of my game on the mountain, but you happened along so luckily that I am delighted. Does it occur to you at this moment, Mr. Velveteens, that you are most beautifully sold?”

“You’ve got the whip hand, now, I reckon,” was the answer; “but that won’t always last. One of these yer days _my_ chaince may come, an’ when it does no one, not even Rafe, shill stop me when I want my revenge.”

“I am not yet satisfied that I shall let you go,” she answered. “You came here under false colors, and betrayed those who thought that they were giving you aid in time of need while you were only studying a way to effect the release of Rafe Norris.”

“He’s my pard,” was the reply. “You wouldn’t ask a man to go back on his pard, would ye?”

“No; I can not blame you so much for that but you did a wicked and cruel act when you poisoned my pet bear.”

“Who sez I did?”

“No matter; you did the deed, for your face betrays you. Why should I not keep you here until my father returns, to meet his vengeance?”

“He’s marked me fur life,” replied Velveteens, holding up his maimed hand. “Ain’t that enough?”

“If I let you go, your first act will be to study new wrongs. I am afraid I must keep you a prisoner.”

“Don’t do it, gal,” he pleaded, eagerly. “I must go back; I’m ruined forever ef I don’t, ye see—and I’ll promise any thing—any thing, ef ye’ll only let me go.”

“And you would break your promise as readily as it is made,” she answered. “I do not know what to do in your case.”

“See thar, gal; yender comes Whirlwind and his gang. Oh, let me git off fur he’ll take my scalp, sure.”

“Away with you, then; save yourself if you can, but never let me see your face again.”

He sprung away eagerly and began to clamber up the mountain rapidly, for Whirlwind and two of his chief warriors were already in view. Myrtle did not attempt to fly, but waited calmly the approach of the chief, who dismounted and came forward, starting back in surprise at her great beauty.

“Short Legs’ squaw, eh?” he said, in broken English. “No ’fraid of Whirlwind; he good friend to Short Legs and Beaver Captain.”

“I am not afraid of the great Blackfoot chief,” replied Myrtle, who had been told what to do in case Whirlwind came. “My father has left a message for him.”

“Good; Whirlwind will read it.”

She went into the cabin and came out with two pieces of bark inscribed with strange hieroglyphics. The chief looked at them intently and seemed to understand them.

“It is good; tell Short Legs that Whirlwind will meet him at the place with many braves. Who is the man who goes up mountain; friend, eh?”

Myrtle hesitated, for, bad and cruel as she knew Velveteens to be, she could not find it in her heart to expose him to the tender mercies of the Blackfoot chief. Yet, she did not wish to lie to him, for that was a crime which he would never forgive. She did the best thing under the circumstances—told the truth.

“He _was_ my prisoner, but I have given him liberty, and allowed him to go.”

“Brave man, eh!” said the chief, contemptuously. “Girl take him?”

“If the Blackfeet know a brave of the Sioux who is called Anatole, _he_ can tell whether he is a brave man or not.”

“Anatole is a dog; but, he is brave,” replied the chief.

“Anatole and this man would have made me a prisoner. I shot the Sioux and took this man prisoner, and made him carry the deer from the mountain.”

“Good!” said the chief, briefly. “Can the white girl shoot straight?”

“I will show you,” replied Myrtle, not in the spirit of bravado but because of the effect it might have upon the Indians if they should become enemies again. “Does Whirlwind see the bird on the bush?” she pointed to a wood thrush, nearly ninety yards distant.

“Whirlwind sees.”

She stepped to the front and lifted the carbine, which was one of the best make, or was, rather, a short rifle. She felt that it was necessary to make a good shot after what had been said and was very careful. Indians as a rule are not good marksmen, and none of the warriors had any idea that she would hit the bird, but to their utter surprise it fell at the crack of the rifle and one of the warriors scurried away to pick up the game. Throwing himself out of the saddle hanging by one foot, he swooped up the dead bird and brought it in. The head had been severed from the neck as neatly as if it had been done by a knife.

“My daughter can shoot,” said the chief. “I believe that she shot Anatole and took the white man prisoner. A brave warrior must make the white girl his wife.”

He said no more, but calling to his men they rode away rapidly, leaving the girl alone. It might have been an hour later when Old Pegs came into the valley.

“I’ve seen the brigade and they ar’ having trouble,” he said. “They’ve hed four men killed this week by the cussid Sioux.”

“What do they want, father?” said Myrtle. “Why should they seek to drive our men away?”

Old Pegs explained, and it is well to give the substance of his remarks to explain the feeling which existed between the men of the “Hudson Bay Company” and the “North-west.” It was simply a question of boundaries. The Northern Company claimed the right to send their trapping parties where they pleased, and the North-West disputed that claim. The parties which came out this season of the year were not trapping but “prospecting,” in order to know the best places for trapping in the coming winter.

Both sides had men to whom fighting was a pastime, and it was known that they would shed blood sooner than suffer a rival to encroach upon their trapping-grounds. “The brigade” of which Dave Farrell was captain was composed of men who were the pick and flower of the mountaineers, and who came out with the expectation of fighting. Perhaps they exceeded their instructions, sometimes, for they were not likely to study the boundaries very closely, and good trapping-ground whether north or south of the line was, to use a border expression, “their meat.”

It would be bootless to tell all that Old Pegs said and did when Myrtle told him what had happened since his departure. He raved, stamped, and launched all manner of invectives at the unlucky Velveteens.

“No buddy but a gal would hev let the cuss go,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t you keep him until Whirlwind came?”

“Father! could I do that? Bad as he is I could not give him up to Indian vengeance.”

“I don’t know but yer right, Myrtle. You’ve got a tender heart even fur the meanest skunk on the face of the creatid ’arth, and thet’s this same Velveteens. But, don’t you hunt any more till we’ve cleaned out this truck. Keep out ov sight. Don’t show yourself even to the Blackfoot, ’cause he mout turn ag’in’ us. Let’s fodder up; I’m gitting mighty hungry.”

Myrtle went into the cabin and prepared a meal and the two sat down to eat. When they had finished they were startled by the rattle of firearms away in the east. “Ther at it,” cried Old Pegs. “I’ve got ter take a hand.”