LITMIR.BIZ

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the late site of her residence, Adele saw, nearly half-a-mile away, standing on a small elevation, John Howell. He had led his pursuers in a half circle, and having escaped for the time from their range of vision, was evidently bent on discovering what course the Blackfeet intended to pursue with regard to their prisoners. Turning her eye from him, it fell upon a moving object coming over the plain in a direct line toward them. The Indians, too, saw this object, which, it could be easily discerned, was a horseman, riding at a quick rate. A halt was made for a moment, and the renegade, who rode immediately in advance of the captives, half turned on his saddle, and said:

      “That ar’ person comin’ is yer son, Hugh, an’ ef he comes a little closer, he’ll rush right into our arms. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ye myself, but it does seem as though luck was down on yer family to-day.”

      The bad luck of the family, however, seemed to be partly averted, for, fortunately, the young man had a companion. This person gave token that he was an old voyageur on the plains; for his eye, ever on the alert, quickly caught sight of the hollow and the savages therein. Their horses were held in, a long survey taken, and then, to all appearance, satisfied that, for the present, no good could be done by them, the two turned to one side, and pushed their steeds into a quick gallop. About the same time, the detachment which had started in pursuit of Howell, again caught sight of him, and, fired by their success, rode at a sweeping pace toward his station. He, casting a last look at the smoke of the burning cabin – plainly visible from his position – another at the captives, and a third at his pursuers, commenced a rapid flight.

      Nothing now remaining for the war-party to mark with their devastating hand, they fell again into file, and marched on under the guidance of Rutter.

      Signals had been made to recall the men who were in pursuit of Howell, but their signals, in the excitement of their chase, had not been seen. Perhaps if they had been, they would not have been noticed. One of their number had fallen, and his death demanded vengeance. The scalp of the white man must hang in the belt of a Blackfoot.

      The pursued took the chase coolly, carefully managing a horse that already seemed somewhat tired, he lifted him at every stroke, keeping sharp watch that he was not gained upon, and evidently steering for some place of refuge.

      A long way off appeared the course of a stream, stretching its slowly winding length from south to north. Directly ahead lay a small, but thickly-studded copse of trees. Could the white man see what lay behind or within it?

      There was another cabin there, not very large, but strongly constructed, and just at the edge of the copse, peering anxiously over the plain, a young man of some twenty four years of age. Tall, well-proportioned, with dark-brown hair, and piercing grey eyes, he made no bad appearance as he stood there, holding in his hand a white-brimmed sombrero, garnished with a deep black plume.

      “It is time,” he was murmuring, “that Howell came. He has been gone long, and it is not often he delays beyond the appointed hour, yet – ha! Yonder he comes, and comes right gallantly, though his horse seems weary. By heavens! horsemen are following him – Indians at that! He needs my aid, for three to one is too long an odds, even for him.”

      So saying, the young man snatched up his rifle, which was resting against a tree near by, and threw himself upon his ready saddled steed, making the best of his way out of the thicket, starting at reckless speed in the direction of his friend and the three pursuers.

      The Blackfeet, seeing a mounted man emerge from the thicket, though the distance was full half-a-mile, partly drew in their animals, as if fearing an ambuscade; then, seeing that no one else appeared, they rushed on with an increased fury. The five men, thus triply divided, were gradually approximating, but the red-skins seemed likely to overtake their intended victim before his friend could come to his assistance; and this likelihood appeared to be reduced to a positive certainty, as the horse of Howell stumbled, rose, and then sank in its track, completely blown. His rider was instantly on his feet, and facing the foes, now within fifty yards of him, and coming on at a rate which must, in a minute more, have brought them to the spot where he stood. But the hardy northern trapper is not a man who shrinks from danger, nor does his courage fail him at a critical period. Howell was one who, in all his eventful career, had never allowed his heart to falter, or his hand to shake. His movements, to be sure, were quick, but not flurried, as he brought his deadly rifle to his shoulder. A careful aim, the trigger was pulled – a flash, a report, and then, with an half-uttered yell, the foremost of the three persons wildly threw up his arms, reeled, pitched heavily off his saddle, and fell with a dull thud to the ground.

      The comrades of him who had fallen seemed scarcely to notice the fact, and only hastened on with greater eagerness in order that they might come upon their quarry whilst his rifle was discharged.

      Howell gave a rapid glance over his shoulder. His friend, at a furlong’s distance, had halted. It formed a perfect picture. The sun rode high in the heavens above the great mountains of the west. In the shade, with the woods and the mountains for a background, his horse motionless, the young man looked keenly through the deadly sights of his long rifle. In front of him, with the broad light of the afternoon streaming over their wild forms, came the swooping braves. The whip-like crack of the rifle broke the charm. Perhaps it was a chance shot, but one of the Indians fell, the leaden messenger of death passing through his heart. Immediately afterwards a crushing blow, dealt by the butt of Howell’s gun, swept the third and last of the party from his horse. Half stunned, as he was, he was on his feet in a moment. Bounding towards his white antagonist, he seized him before he had time to draw a weapon, and a confused hand-to-hand encounter ensued. Both fell to the ground, and, tightly clasped in each other’s embrace, rolled over and over. The savage accompanied his work with frantic shouts and cries, but the white man held his teeth firm clenched, and in fierce silence essayed to end the contest. Nor was it of long continuance. An arm was suddenly raised, there was a shimmer and a flash of steel, a muffled cry, then the hunter shook himself loose, rose to his feet, took his tired horse by the bridle, and then he walked toward the grove of trees and the cabin before mentioned.

      The half-mile which was now to be accomplished was soon passed over, and, as the space in front of the cabin was entered, to the traveller’s delight, a fire was seen, with long strings of juicy meat suspended over it, whilst the coffee-pot, that article ever present at the true voyageur’s meal, bubbled and sang a merry strain of welcome.

      The repast was now prepared, and though Howell ate with gusto, yet, with a touch of that taciturnity which at times is visible in men of the wilds, he refused to utter a word. At length, when the repast was over, he raised himself from the floor, on which he had been reclining, and took a long, earnest, and sweeping glance over the plain. Then, returning, he took his former position, and opened a conversation with his companion.

      “Wavin’ Plume, I was down the river to-day, and turned aside to get orders from the major.”

      “Well, what did you see? I’ve been waiting for you to speak. It looks like danger; yet, if there had been danger you would have spoken.”

      Without moving from his seat, Howell pointed over to where the bodies of the dead Indians lay.

      “Take it in a bunch, Charley, though it’s mighty rough. The cussed Blackfeet has bin on a fight with the Crows, and comin’ back they just burned the Major’s cabin, and gobbled up him and his darter, nice as you choose.”

      As if waiting until he had taken in, and digested the whole of this intelligence, Waving Plume sat silently for a brief time, staring at his companion. Then, leaping to his feet, he exclaimed:

      “Saddle your horse, quickly! We must have some token here for the boys, if they come in to-morrow, as they ought to, and then start in pursuit. Linked in, as we are, with Robison, no question of odds can for a moment allow us to think of deserting him and his daughter. We can follow close on them, Hawkins can hurry his men along our trail, and we may be able to attack them before they reach their village.”

      “It ain’t no use to get in a flurry. My animal won’t be fit to start for a couple of hours yet, and I always was in favour of taking things cool. Saddle your horse, though, get your traps ready, leave your signal; and when you’re in the saddle, I guess Jack Howell won’t keep you too long awaiting.”

      As

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