Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.]
[CHAPTER II. A PRAIRIE ENCOUNTER.]
[CHAPTER III. A SERIOUS REVERSE.]
[CHAPTER IV. ASTONISHING THE BLACKFEET.]
[CHAPTER V. THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.]
[CHAPTER VI. A CROW VICTORY.]
[CHAPTER VII. THE PASS.]
[CHAPTER VIII. MARTIN LAURIE’S LITTLE SCHEME.]
[CHAPTER IX. A DOG IN THE WAY.]
[CHAPTER X. CROSS-PURPOSES.]
[CHAPTER XI. DOVE-EYE.]
[CHAPTER XII. A BLIND TRAIL.]
[CHAPTER XIII. LIGHT AHEAD.]
[CHAPTER XIV. THE AMBUSCADE.]
[CHAPTER XV. CONCLUSION.]

Semi-Monthly Novels Series.

No. 205.

BEADLE’S
Dime Novels

THE GRAY SCALP.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.

Am. News Co., 119 & 121 Nassau St., N. Y.

A FOREST HEROINE!

Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 206,

TO ISSUE TUESDAY, JUNE 21st,

Will present a richly racy romance of the woods, viz:

BUCKSKIN BILL;
OR,
The White Demon of the Woods.

A ROMANCE OF THE BLACKFOOT COUNTRY.

BY GUY GREENWOOD,
Author of “The Phantom Foe; or, the Maid of Montmorenci,” etc.

Buckskin Bill is a character. The Far West produces many odd specimens of men, but none whose claim to oddity is stronger than Bill’s. Rough as a bear, he is gentle as a fawn. Brave as a lion, he is afraid of a young girl’s frown. Untutored as a savage, he is yet as wise and shrewd as a minister of war.

In his daughter we have his perfect contrast. The beautiful child-woman is not only grace itself, but is bravery itself; and though apparently as wild as the mustang which she rides, is as true to a pure woman’s instincts as if raised as a petted child of the parlor.

The secondary persons of the stirring story are the captain of the expedition of observation; the dreaded Demon Slayer, whose track seemed marked with the blood of the Blackfeet, and the Indian chief, whose cunning and thirst for scalps gives the leading incidents to the drama.

The novel is alive with action, rapid in its incident-movement, exciting and strange.

☞ For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers; or sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price—Ten Cents.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers,
98 William Street, New York.

THE GRAY SCALP;
OR,
THE BLACKFOOT BRAVE.

BY EDWARD WILLETT,

Author of the following Dime Novels:

10. THE HIDDEN HOME.
111. NED STARLING.
119. THE FIVE CHAMPIONS.
125. THE HUNTED LIFE.
132. OLD HONESTY.
139. THE BORDER FOES.
145. THE MOUNTAINEER.
149. THE HUNTER’S PLEDGE.
159. SNOW-BIRD.
170. BORDER AVENGERS.
187. THE OUTLAWS’ PLOT.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by

BEADLE AND COMPANY,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

(No. 205.)

THE GRAY SCALP.

CHAPTER I.
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.

“Hurrah for Oregon! says I. That’s the place for Denny, and mesilf is the boy who is bound to have a good shlice av the fine lands, and who has a better right?”

“What’s the fool talkin’ about? Thar’s no sech place as Oregon, greeny. That kentry thar is called Oregon, and it’s an Injun name, I reckon.”

“An Injun name! The ignorance av yez! It was named for Michael O’Regan, who first diskivered it, as ye might read in the histories, if ye could read at all. He was an Irishman, from the county Donegal, and was me grandfather’s first cousin on the mother’s side. We dhropped the O’ whin we kim across the say; but that don’t hindher me from claimin’ a shlice av the fine lands that once belonged to me grandfather’s cousin.”

“I don’t believe a word of it, Denny Regan. Of all the liars that were ever turned loose in this yere kentry, I reckon you are about the infarnalest.”

“Is it a liar ye are callin’ me, Misther Pap Byers? Ye’ve got it to take back, or feel the edge av me knife.”

“You had better shut up, both of you. Captain Benning gave orders that there should be no talkin’ around the camp to-night, and he’ll give you a proper good blowin’ up if he ketches you at it. Here he is, by thunder!”

The first speaker was Dennis Regan, a young Irishman, who, although he had turned trapper, had not discarded his brogue with his brogans, or his natural character with his corduroys. The second was John Byers, commonly called Pap Byers, a middle-aged free trapper, of long experience on the plains and in the mountains. In person he was tall, gaunt, sinewy and solemn, while the Irishman was short and stout, with fat cheeks and a merry face. The third speaker was Sam Glass, a hired trapper, in the employ of Mr. Robinette, the fur-trader to whose company all were attached.

Captain Benning, who came up just as Sam Glass mentioned his name, was a tall young man, well built and fine looking, with an appearance of activity, nerve and daring. He was one of the leaders of the party under Mr. Robinette, and was regarded as an excellent “partisan.”

“What is the meaning of this noise?” asked the captain, frowning upon the group. “Don’t you know that orders were given to keep the camp quiet to-night?”

“It was Denny Regan here,” replied Pap Byers. “The durned fool was tryin’ to make us believe that Oregon was diskivered by an Irishman, and named arter him.”

“And this ould sinner called me a liar, capt’in dear, and that’s what ye wouldn’t like to be called yersilf.”

“No matter who began it, or what it was about; it must be stopped. There are Indians all around us, and they may be down upon us at any moment. I have been obliged to leave my patrol to come and put a stop to your noise, and there is no telling what may happen during my absence. Hark! I believe something is already the matter with the horses.”

In an instant the attitude and air of the four men were changed. With countenances expressive of anxiety, they leaned forward, listening intently to catch the slightest sound that might indicate an alarm.

“You’re right thar, cap’n!” exclaimed Byers, seizing his rifle and jumping up; “the red-skins are among the hosses.”

All rushed toward the camp, to give the alarm, and to search for the wily enemy; but they were too late.

The horses were already stampeded, and came bursting through the camp like an avalanche, overthrowing every thing before them. After them, with terrific yells and whoops, poured a crowd of half-naked savages, splendidly mounted, galloping like mad after the frightened herd.

Captain Benning and his companions fired at the Indians, and a few straggling shots from the camp showed that some attempt at defense was made there; but the furious rush of the animals prevented any thing like an organized resistance. It is probable that the assailants had not intended, at first, any thing more than a stampede; but the route taken by the horses had thrown the camp into such confusion, that the massacre and plunder of the party of white men seemed to follow as a matter of course.

The voices of the leaders were heard, far above the din, directing the movements of their followers. A few of the warriors rode on after the herd, to keep the animals together and guide their course; while the others turned and dashed upon the scattered and bewildered whites, hoping to slay them before they could recover from their confusion.

But a party of more than thirty mountain men was not to be so easily discomfited. The hardy trappers and hunters, accustomed to savage combats, availing themselves of the shelter of the wagons and packs, stood gallantly on the defensive, loading and firing their rifles with a rapidity and precision that soon checked the fury of the onset. The savages, who fought at a disadvantage on horseback, were in their turn thrown into confusion and forced back.

Again the voices of the leaders rung out, and a portion of the warriors dismounted, to renew the combat on foot, while others circled around the wagons, for the purpose of driving the trappers from their defenses.

The white men were quickly outflanked, and were gradually forced back, until they were compelled to take refuge in a thicket, leaving the camp in the possession of their assailants.

Having accomplished this much, the savages, as has sometimes happened to more civilized warriors, made a poor use of their victory. Instead of pursuing their advantage, part of them fell to plundering the camp and securing the scalps of the slain.

It was at this juncture that Benning and his companions, who had been compelled to make a circuit in order to find their friends, reached the camp, and poured in a volley upon the flank of the savages. The trappers in the thicket, profiting by this diversion in their favor, rushed out, and charged boldly upon the enemy. A few volleys from their terrible rifles changed the face of affairs, and the savages were soon flying from the camp as swiftly as they had entered it. Being unable to pursue them, from lack of horses, the trappers collected in the midst of the ruins, vowing vengeance against the midnight marauders.

Out of thirty-five men, six had been killed outright, including Mr. Robinette, the head of the expedition. It was impossible to say how many lives had been lost on the side of the Indians, as they had carried off all their dead and wounded, besides a large amount of plunder. A few of the remaining white men were wounded, but none severely.

After a hurried survey of the field, the question arose by what means the savages had been enabled to creep upon the camp without being observed. Angry recriminations ensued, and hard words seemed likely to lead to hard blows.

“Perhaps you can tell us who was at fault, Captain Benning?” said Mr. Laurie, the principal agent of Mr. Robinette. “You should know, if any man knows.”

“What good will it do to argue that matter now?” tartly replied Benning. “Somebody was careless, of course, and perhaps I might put my finger on the man; but of what use would that be now? The mischief has been done, and no one knows the extent of it yet. Has anybody seen Miss Flora?”

The faces of all changed, and greater consternation than they had yet shown was now visible among the rough trappers.

Flora Robinette was the only child of her father, a beautiful dark-haired and dark-eyed girl of nineteen. Since the death of her mother, the trader had been so strongly attached to her, that it had seemed almost impossible for him to separate himself from her. As it was part of the object of this expedition to establish a post west of the Rocky Mountains, at which he expected to spend the greater part of his time, he had at last yielded to her entreaties, and permitted her to accompany him and share his home in the wilds. He believed that his party was strong enough to furnish a safe escort, and that she could be in no danger when the post was established. Her only hardships, as he supposed, would be such as would result from traveling over the plains, and from deprivation of the comforts and luxuries of civilization; but these she had professed herself able and willing to endure.

She had endured them, so far, without grumbling, and with all apparent cheerfulness. She had manifested, also, a spirit of daring and love of adventure, together with a real delight in the fresh air and free life of the plains, that had charmed the rough men into whose company she was thrown, and rendered her the idol of them all. It was no wonder that their cheeks blanched when they were asked if they had seen her.

No one had seen Flora Robinette since the commencement of the fray. At the usual hour she had retired to the wagon in which she slept, and was supposed to have been there when the horses were stampeded and broke through the camp; but an examination showed that the wagon was empty.

On the ground, near the wagon, lay the body of her father, his head, from which the gray hair on the top had been stripped, surrounded by a pool of his own blood; but no trace of Flora could be found. A careful search was made by the disheartened trappers; but it disclosed nothing. They could only suppose that she had been awakened by the tumult, had looked out of the wagon, and had thus been espied by the Indians, who would lose no time in taking possession of such a prize. It was certain that she had disappeared, leaving no trace.

When the fruitless search was ended, a great change had come over George Benning. He stood like a statue, silent and motionless, and one would have thought, from the expression of his countenance, that every thing that was worth living for in the world had been taken from him. His demeanor was so strange, that Martin Laurie, the agent, took him aside and spoke with him.

Laurie was a Scotchman, whose age might have been anywhere between forty and forty-five. He had the sandy hair, red eyes and watery complexion peculiar to many of his race; but was not really ill-looking. He was sedate and precise, a shrewd and methodical man of business, and as such had been highly esteemed by Mr. Robinette.

“What is the matter with you, Benning?” he asked. “You act very strangely, and you look as if you had lost all the friends you had in the world. Can it be possible that the death of Mr. Robinette affects you so strongly?”

“No. He was a good man, and I respected him highly; but I have no special reason to grieve for him.”

“It must be, then, that it is the loss of Miss Flora that troubles you.”

“I confess it. If she had been killed, it would have been relief to know it; but she has been carried away, we know not where, and it is terrible to think of the fate that may be reserved for her.”

“You seem to take it harder than any of the rest of us, although you are in no way related to her. I have noticed, during this journey, that you were much interested in Miss Flora, and I intended to tell you, as I now must, that it was her father’s wish that she should become my wife.”

“Indeed! Was she aware of it?”

“I don’t know that she was. She was an only child, as you know, and Mr. Robinette was possessed of considerable property. It was his desire that she should marry a careful and prudent man of business, such as he considered me to be, who would take care that her means were not wasted.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Laurie—and I do not mean to dispute your word—it is useless to say any more about it now. She is gone, and it is doubtful if either of us will be permitted to see her again in this world. There is a chance, however, that she may still be living. I mean to search for her, and shall never abandon the search while life is left to me. I will not hinder you, of course, from devoting yourself to the same object, if you wish to do so.”

“Now that Mr. Robinette is dead, it is my duty, under his instructions, to take this party on to the rendezvous west of the mountains, and follow the plan that he had formed for this season’s work. If I can do any thing to help you, I will gladly do it.”

“I only ask for three men.”

“You may take any three who are willing to follow you. If you succeed, I suppose you will join us at the rendezvous.”

“I hardly dare to hope for success. I can only say that I will do my best.”

When Laurie and Benning returned to the trappers, they found them inquiring what Indians they were that had made the attack.

“They were Blackfeet, I suppose,” said Benning. “How can there be any doubt about it?”

“Easy enough, cap’n,” replied Byers. “Do Blackfeet wear Crow blankets and moccasins?”

“No.”

“We have found a Crow blanket and a Crow moccasin on this yere ground, and that settles the p’int, I reckon.”

“But the Crows are the friends of the white men, and never attack them.”

“Wal—I ain’t so sartin of that as you seem to be. I know that they steal white men’s hosses, and thar’s no end to an Injun’s devilment, nohow.”

Some of the party were of the opinion that the assailants had been Blackfeet; but the majority sided with Byers, convinced by the Crow blanket and moccasin.

The next morning, after the bodies of the dead had been buried, Laurie and his party pushed on with the train toward the west, and Benning set off on the trail of the midnight assailants, accompanied by Pap Byers, Sam Glass and Dennis Regan. They were on foot, as no horses had been left except such as were absolutely necessary for the train; but they hoped soon to be able to secure a remount.

CHAPTER II.
A PRAIRIE ENCOUNTER.

The prairie was limitless. As far as the eye could see, and as much further as fancy cared to picture, it spread out like an ocean, endless and eternal. In wave upon wave of many-colored luxuriance, it rolled onward, until all color melted into the purplish hue of the horizon. There was, it is true, a thin line of low cottonwoods, marking the course of some little creek; but that might have been a mere coral reef in the ocean, or a swath of drifting seaweed. There were, also, two small islands of trees in the distance; but islands are necessary to prove the existence of ocean. Far away to the westward could be dimly descried the shadowy outlines of lofty mountains; but their snowy peaks, resting among the clouds, could not be distinguished from the clouds, and fancy could easily suppose that the prairie rolled under and beyond them, instead of bathing their rough feet in its flowery waves. As well as vision could decide, the prairie was a limitless ocean.

Only a speck in this vast ocean was the figure of a man on horseback, riding toward the west. He rode slowly, almost listlessly, seeming absorbed in the beauty of the variegated landscape, given up to the sweet influences of the exhilarating and odorous atmosphere.

A fine specimen of a man was this rider, whose age might have been a few years on the sunny side of thirty. He was fully six feet in hight, well formed and athletic, with features that a woman would call handsome, in spite of his bronzed skin. His gray eyes were keen and restless; his chestnut hair, worn long, after the fashion of the Indians and trappers, flowed down upon his shoulders in wavy masses; his mouth was well cut, shaded by a silky mustache; and his beard, long and full, had the same rich color as his hair. His hunting-shirt and leggings were of the finest dressed deer-skin, and were richly and tastefully ornamented. His moccasins, also, showed the patient labor of some Indian woman, and must have cost the wearer a good quantity of trinkets or of scarlet cloth, if, indeed, they had not been a love-gift. His pipe-holder must surely have been a gage d’amour; for it was a triumph of Indian workmanship, such as the squaws of the plains were not in the habit of selling. A double-barreled rifle, short, heavy, and richly finished, was his principal weapon, and rested across his right leg and the pommel of his saddle. A bright and keen-edged hatchet, or small ax, was stuck in his belt, flanked by a hunting-knife in an embroidered sheath. From his appearance, he might have been an independent trapper; but he carried no traps or sack of “possibles,” and had no animal except the fine jet-black horse which he bestrode.

“Nearly noon,” he soliloquized, looking up at the sun. “If I do not strike the trail of old Robinette’s party before long, I shall conclude that they are behind me, and it will be necessary to wait for them. I had better join them, I suppose, as I want an outfit for the coming season, and I am curious to see whether his daughter is as beautiful as she has been represented to be. As if that was a matter that concerned me at all! It is possible that I might find some woman who could persuade me to quit this wild life; but it lacks a great deal of being probable. It is possible, though, that I may have strayed from my course, and I must consult my little true-pointer.”

Stopping his horse, he drew from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a small pocket-compass, rested it in the palm of his hand, and watched its indications.

“No; I’m on the right track—no mistake about that. I must cross the trail soon, if they have got this far. Ha! what is coming yonder? A red-skin, I suppose, and one who wants my scalp. Now, Samson, who knows but we may have a little brush to stir our blood?”

The horse pricked up his ears, whinnied, and seemed to anticipate a combat as eagerly as his master.

It was a mere speck that attracted the attention of the rider; but it was a moving speck, and he could easily guess what it meant. When he caught sight of it, he might have mistaken it for a solitary buffalo; but a brief inspection showed him that its movements were not those of the buffalo. Soon something white came into view, and the rays of the sun, shining upon it, made the speck look like a moving star.

Within a short time the speck was no longer a speck, but had assumed the form and proportions of an Indian on horseback. The white man reined in his horse, took his rifle in his right hand, and awaited the approach of the stranger.

When the Indian had come within rifle-shot, the white man judged it best to signal him and ascertain his intentions. Accordingly, he raised his right hand, with the palm in front, and pushed it back and forth a few times. This was a signal to halt; but the savage, after shaking his head furiously, paid no further attention to it, but put his horse to full speed, and commenced to circle around his foe.

Mounted on a jet-black horse, the exact image of that which carried the white man, he presented a fine appearance as he galloped swiftly over the plain. He was nearly naked, his blanket being under him, and his skin shone as if it had been freshly oiled. With fine features, eyes as fierce and keen as lightning, and supple and sinewy limbs, every motion showing the play of his muscles, he presented an excellent object for the study of the painter or the sculptor. His scalp-lock, adorned with feathers, showed that he held a high rank as a brave. In his right hand he carried a gun, a bow and a quiver of arrows were slung at his back, and an Indian battle-ax hung at his left side. On his left arm he carried a shield, round and white, which was dazzling to the beholder when the rays of the sun were reflected from it.

“That red-skin don’t want to talk,” muttered the white man. “He is keen for fight, and won’t be satisfied until he gets his fill. Well, I think I can accommodate him.”

As the Indian circled over the prairie, the white man, with his rifle at his shoulder, kept turning, so as continually to face his antagonist. His horse, obedient to the slightest pressure of his knee, turned where he stood, as if he comprehended, as well as his master, the best position for defense.

It was the object of the Indian to draw the fire of the white man; but he soon perceived that his foe was too wary for him, and he changed his tactics. Slinging his gun, he took his bow and some arrows from his shoulder. He then fastened one foot in his wooden stirrup, threw his body over on the right side of the horse, and again commenced to ride around the white man, drawing nearer at every circle, until he was within easy bow-shot, when he began to discharge his arrows at his antagonist.

This position of affairs soon became unpleasant to the white man, as the arrows flew uncomfortably near him, and he was obliged to change his position. He dismounted, and stood at the side of his horse, turning as the Indian wheeled, so as to make a breastwork of the animal. Still the Indian sent his arrows flying, and one of them struck the horse in the shoulder.

Smarting with pain, the wounded animal went off at a gallop. As the Indian raised himself to his seat with a cry of triumph, the indignant white man discharged one of the barrels of his rifle at him; but the wily savage had dropped down by the side of his horse.

Supposing that he had drawn the fire of his enemy, the exultant Indian again raised himself to his seat, and fired quickly. The white man’s rifle cracked again at the same instant, and the Indian’s horse fell upon him. Seeing his enemy entangled by his horse, the white man rushed upon him with his tomahawk; but, before he could reach him, the Indian was up, with his battle-ax in his hand.

The contest was now one of skill and strength; but both parties, having tried each other’s mettle, fought slowly and warily, husbanding their wind for an effective stroke. The blows of each were so well parried, that the combatants became wearied in the encounter before either had sustained any serious injury, and they drew back, as if by mutual consent, to recover breath.

At this juncture a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, who raised both of his hands above his head, with the forefingers locked. This, in the pantomimic language of the plains, understood by all the prairie Indians, was a sign of friendship. He then threw his battle-ax behind him, and stepped forward three paces, extending his right arm with the hand open.

The white man hesitated a moment, and then, as if ashamed of himself for mistrusting his late adversary, dropped his tomahawk, and advanced in his turn with extended hand.

“If you really are a friend, red-skin,” he said, in the Dacotah dialect, “you have a strange way of showing it; but I am willing to forget and forgive.”

“My white friend is a warrior,” replied the Indian. “He is a great brave, and I am glad that I have met him. Let him come with me, and he shall share my lodge, and shall be my brother.”

“Perhaps we had better wait a little before going so far. I am not quite so ready to join hands with a man who has just sought my life. You are a Blackfoot, I should say, judging from your paint. What name do you go by?”

“My brother has guessed well. I am a Blackfoot, and am a great brave among my people, who have named me White Shield. What is my brother called?”

“My name is Fred Wilder, and the red-skins call me Silverspur, because, I suppose, I have always worn one of those articles among them.”

The young man reached out his foot, showing a large silver spur, with a steel rowel, strapped upon his moccasin.

“I have heard of Silverspur from the Grovans and the Kickarees, as well as from the Sioux. He is a great warrior, and I am proud to know him. Let him share my lodge and be my brother. My people will be glad to see him.”

“But the Blackfeet are enemies of the whites. How do I know but they may take my scalp.”

“White Shield is a great brave, and the Blackfeet will do what he tells them to do. They will never harm his brother, but will love and honor him.”

“But I am a trapper, and must hunt beaver and otter. I am looking for the party of Mr. Robinette, which is on its way to the mountains. I must get traps and an outfit from them. Has White Shield seen them or heard of them?”

“I have heard of them; but they have not yet come into this country. My brother need give himself no trouble about them. Let him come with me, and he will find traps, and I will show him better beaver-streams than he has ever seen. He can live among the Blackfeet and trade with them, and can get more skins than any other trader.”

It may have been the love of adventure that moved Fred Wilder, or it may have been the desire of gain, stimulated by the prospect that the Blackfoot held out to him. Impulsively he grasped the hand of White Shield, and the two pledged eternal friendship and brotherhood after the Indian fashion.

“My brother was fighting me a few moments ago,” said Wilder. “Why was he so anxious to kill me? It is seldom that you red-skins dare to attack a white man singly, unless you have an advantage over him.”

“White Shield is no coward,” replied the Blackfoot. “It is long since I have taken a scalp, and my people have lately suffered many reverses. I wished to carry home a scalp, so that the Blackfeet in my village might wash the mourning paint from their faces. I did not know that my brother had the advantage of me, in owning a rifle that would shoot twice. I never saw such a rifle.”

“I had the advantage of you in another point, after your horse was killed. You were afoot, while I might have mounted at any moment.”

Wilder whistled, and his horse, which was grazing at a little distance, came running to him. He examined the wound, which was a slight one, and transferred to the back of the horse the Indian’s saddle and blankets and bridle. The two then set out toward the north-west, White Shield leading the way on foot.

CHAPTER III.
A SERIOUS REVERSE.

When George Benning and his three companions set out on the trail of the marauders who had attacked their camp, they were all afoot; but they hoped soon to be able to get a remount, at the expense of some Indian horse-owners. The Indians always did their horse-stealing on foot, and there was no good reason why white men should not imitate their example.

“That sounds very well, cap’n,” said Sam Glass, when Benning had presented this view of the subject, “and it will be easy enough to do, no doubt, purvided that we ken find the Injuns; but we may hev to tramp many a mile, afore we came up on a village.”

“No trouble about that, boy,” replied Pap Byers. “We’ll find Injuns enough, I warrant ye. The only p’int is, that we must be cautions and quiet, and I’d like to know how this yere Irishman’s tongue is to be kep’ still.”

“Is it me tongue that you’re spa’kin’ of?” snapped Dennis Regan. “Sure, me tongue is as ready as your hand, any day.”

“That’s the trouble, Denny. It is a heap too ready, and is sartin to shoot off when it ain’t wanted to.”

“It hits the cinter ivery time, and that’s more’n can be said av your rifle.”

“We won’t quarrel about it,” interposed Captain Benning. “It is certain that Denny must learn to keep quiet, or he may bring us all into another scrape. Tramp is the word, boys.”

It was not until the evening of the second day after they had started on the trail, that the party perceived indications which led them to believe that they were in the vicinity of an Indian village. Proceeding a little further, they heard the sound of bells, which the Indians sometimes attach to their horses, proceeding from a ravine a short distance to the left of the trail.

By a careful reconnoissance it was discovered that there was a large drove of horses in the ravine, feeding loose, on both sides of a little stream. The party withdrew to lay their plans, and it was arranged that they should enter the ravine, where each should select two horses from the drove, and should bring them to the head of the ravine, where all were to rendezvous. Benning was especially careful to warn his companions to be cautious and quiet, and to take no more horses than were necessary.

The four men entered the ravine at different points, and proceeded to select and secure their horses. This was accomplished without any misadventure, and Benning was the first to reach the head of the ravine, where he was soon joined by Pap Byers and Sam Glass, each mounted and leading a horse.

“We have succeeded very well so far,” said the captain. “With these horses under us, and fresh ones to rest them, we ought to have the heels of any red-skins. Where is Dennis?”

“He’ll be along directly, I reckon,” replied Byers. “Thar he comes, on a run! What in thunder has the durned fool been doin’?”

The Irishman came up the ravine at a gallop, mounted on a fine mare, and leading two horses. The mare had a bell fastened to her neck, which clattered furiously as he rode up to his companions. Benning’s face turned pale with anger, but he controlled himself and spoke quite composedly.

“Why have you brought three horses when I told you to take but two? And why did you choose that bell mare? Don’t you know that the noise will bring the Indians down upon us?”

“The mare was the finest av the lot, capt’in dear. She’s betther than both the others, if I’m a jidge av horseflesh.”

“That bell will be the ruin of us. It is a wonder that the whole drove has not stampeded after her.”

“I was m’anin’ to take it aff, sir, as soon as I could git the cratur’ quiet,” replied Dennis, as he dismounted.

The head of the ravine, where the four men were collected with their horses, was quite narrow, with steep sides, which were covered pretty thickly with trees and undergrowth. Darkness was rapidly succeeding to dusk, and all were impatient to be off.

As Dennis dismounted, one of his led horses slipped its thong, and started off. When he turned hastily to catch it, he loosed the mare, which galloped away at full speed, her bell clattering noisily as she went. Directly there was a great commotion among the herd of horses down in the ravine, and it was evident that they were stampeding.

“Tare an’ ouns!” exclaimed the indignant Irishman. “The bloody divil has got away, afther all me throuble. May ivery hair on her tail turn to a hickory sthick, to bate her as long as she can dhraw a breath.”

“Hold your clattering tongue!” exclaimed Benning. “You make more noise than the infernal bell. The Indians will be down on us in no time, and we may thank our stars if we get out of this scrape. Mount the horse you are holding, and ride as if fire were behind you.”

Dennis was about to mount, when he was suddenly seized from behind, and dragged into the bushes. The next instant the ravine was vocal with savage yells, and the white men found themselves surrounded with savage Indians.

Escape seemed impossible; but Benning was not a man to lose his life without an effort to preserve it. Loosing his led animal, he discharged his rifle at the group of Indians before him, and then, putting his horse to the top of his speed, dashed down the ravine, overturning and scattering his antagonists as he went.

Bullets and arrows flew after him; but he sped on unhurt, until he had gone about a quarter of a mile, when his horse suddenly stopped, in front of a perpendicular wall of rock, that seemed to close up the ravine.

Bewildered at meeting this unexpected obstacle, he was about to turn and endeavor to cut his way back in the opposite direction, when he reflected that he had been following the bed of a stream, which must surely cañon at the wall of rock.

Straining his sight through the growing darkness he saw what seemed to be an opening, and pushed his horse for it, bending down upon the horse’s neck, to save his head from contact with the rocky roof. The horse went forward, slowly but surely, and Benning thought that he was about to emerge from the cañon, when, to his great dismay, he found himself wedged fast in the opening. With words and kicks he tried to force his steed forward, but it would not budge. He had given himself up for lost; but an arrow from behind struck his horse in the rear, and, with a violent effort, it squeezed through the aperture.

Hardly had Benning issued from the cañon, when another peril confronted him. The horse stopped at the brink of a precipice. The rider could see that a prairie stretched out below him; but he could not guess how far down it might be, or what might await him at the foot of the rock.

There was no time for consideration. His pursuers were close behind him. He had to choose between certain death at the hands of the savages, and a fearful leap in the dark. He chose the latter alternative; but his horse refused to take the leap, backing away from the abyss, and snorting and trembling with terror. Drawing his knife, he struck it into the haunch of the animal. Maddened by the pain, the horse sprung forward into the gloom, and alighted, unhurt, upon the soft turf below.

Benning rode away, slowly, thankful that his life had been preserved, and reflecting sadly upon the fate of his companions.

Of these, Dennis Regan had been pinioned as soon as he was seized, Sam Glass had been shot dead while attempting resistance, and Pap Byers had been soon overpowered and bound.

After relieving Glass of his scalp, the Indians took their two captives to the village, which was situated a short distance from the ravine in which their horses were kept.

In order to confine the captives, they were laid on their backs in the middle of the village, with their arms and legs stretched out, and tied by the hands and feet to stakes driven in the ground. In this uncomfortable position they were obliged to pass the night, while the savages made merry over their victory.

“See what a fix you have brought us into, you crazy little red-headed wretch!” exclaimed Pap Byers, after he had chafed and cursed himself into a perspiration.

“It’s none of my bringin’, you spider-shanked, pickle-faced ould drumhead!” replied Dennis. “It was jist that murtherin’ divil av a sorrel mare that up-ended us and stretched us out here; but, fur all that, who knows but I’m the boy who will bring us safe out av this?”

“Talk’s cheap, boy. Ken ye bring Sam Glass back to life? Thar’s Cap’n Benning too; it’s likely that he’s got his pill afore this. Ken ye do any thin’ fur him?”

“The mithers av ’em can’t be more sorry fur the boys than is Denny Regan; but it’s the divil’s own tongue that says I fotched ’em into the scrape. If I was on me feet, I’d make yez swaller that same, you dried-up old wolf-skin.”

“Quarrelin’ won’t mend the matter; but you know as well as I do, Denny, that it was your loose tongue and your crazy ways that made all the trouble.”

“I know it jist as well as you do, and that’s not at all. Tell me, now, Pap Byers, what Injuns is these that’s got us?”

“Blackfeet—the bloodiest, meanest and most savagerous of all the red-skins in these parts.”

“And what will they do wid us?”

“Kill us—tortur’ us—burn us, most likely.”

“Is it burnin’ ye say? Och, be the powers! it makes me flesh crawl to think av it. The bloody haythins! Is it sure enough burnin’ that they do, or do they jist bother a man and let him go?”

“It’s burnin’, I tell ye—burnin’ by a slow fire—roastin’, fryin’, br’llin’. Thar ain’t any let go about it; it holds on fur hours, and you suffer death a dozen times afore you die onst.”

“Howly mither of Moses! That bates purgatory, intirely. To think that one av the ould shtock av the O’Regans should be roasted alive! I vow to the blissed Vargin, if I can only git clare of this shcrape, I’ll not shpake a mortal word to any livin’ man—or woman, fur that matter—fur a long six months, and I’ll begin at onst to kape me vow.”

The Irishman was silent. Byers spoke to him after a while; but Dennis did not reply. Again Byers spoke to him; but a snore was the only answer he received.

“I do believe,” said he, “that the durned fool has gone to sleep. I wouldn’t hev thought that burnin’ would set so easy onto his stummick.”

CHAPTER IV.
ASTONISHING THE BLACKFEET.

Fred Wilder accompanied his new friend without any doubt or hesitation. He knew that the word of an Indian was sacred, when pledged to his adopted brother, and he felt no uneasiness as to the treatment he would receive among the Blackfeet.

In the course of three days they arrived safely at the Blackfeet village, where White Shield introduced his brother, Silverspur, as a great warrior, a man wonderful for strength of arms, keenness of eye, activity of limb, and bigness of heart. He related the particulars of the encounter in which he had formed the acquaintance of the white man, and gave him credit for extraordinary bravery and skill. He concluded by declaring that Silverspur was his sworn brother, and must be treated as such; that he must have full liberty to live among the Blackfeet, to hunt, fish and trade as he pleased, and to go and come as might suit his pleasure.

Instead of being displeased at the arrival of the white man, the Blackfeet appeared to be very well satisfied, and passed many encomiums upon White Shield for having brought such a valuable accession to their tribe. Some of them had heard of Silverspur, and could echo the praise that White Shield bestowed upon him. His rifle had sent death to more than one Blackfoot warrior, and they knew it; but that only added to his glory as a warrior, and they were proud to claim him as one of themselves. Good Ax, the head chief, granted him unlimited trading privileges, and invited him to “marry and settle”—in other words, to select a wife, or as many wives as he wanted.

Silverspur, whose heart had not been enamored by the fair-skinned beauties of his own race, and who was not likely to yield to the fascinations of any dusky damsel, evaded the matrimonial responsibility, saying that he thought it best to wait until he became better known, and that, in the mean time, he would share the lodge of White Shield, who happened to be a bachelor.

A few days after his introduction to the Blackfeet, on his return from a hunting-excursion, he found that a war-party, which had been absent for some time, had arrived at the village. They had been victorious over their adversaries, but had lost a few of their number, for which reason they were debarred from dancing, or rejoicing over their victory. On the contrary, the village was filled with mourning, and the wailing of the mourners, together with the horrible manner in which they mangled themselves, so disgusted the young man that he did not care to inquire further concerning the affair.

Soon after this, there was an alarm at the village, occasioned by the attempt of some marauders to steal horses. Most of the warriors went out to meet the enemy; but Fred Wilder, who did not care to expose his life in the quarrels of the red-men, remained in his lodge, smoking his pipe, and mentally abusing himself for the roving disposition that brought him into “the tents of Ishmael.”

The affair was soon quieted, and the warriors returned in high glee. They had captured two prisoners, as White Shield informed his friend, and had taken a scalp. The mourning in the village, therefore, was at an end. All washed their faces, and prepared for a dance and a jollification.

As sleep was out of the question, in the midst of such an uproar, Wilder sallied out and joined the dancers. The scalp which was the occasion of the revelry, together with one which had been brought in by the war-party, was suspended upon a pole, and Wilder inspected them with the others. The hair of one of the scalps was short, black and curly. That of the other was short, thin and silver gray. It was evident to the young trapper that neither was the scalp of an Indian, and he called White Shield aside to speak to him concerning them.

“That black scalp yonder,” said he, “is not the scalp of an Indian.”

“No; it is the scalp of a white man.”

“They were white men, then, who came to steal horses?”

“Yes; and the two prisoners are white men.”

“Is the gray scalp the scalp of a white man, too?”

“Yes. We would have had a big dance over that scalp, if we had not lost two warriors in the fight. It is the scalp of the white-haired chief.”

“And who was he?”

“I thought you knew him. You call him Robinette, the trader.”

“Whew! The old fellow is dead, then,” said Wilder, musingly. “He was a strange man, shrewd, daring, but rather unscrupulous, as I have heard. Did your braves capture his train?”

“No. They came across his party, and stampeded the horses. As they had surprised the camp, they thought they might do more; but the white men beat them off at last. The men who came to-night were his men. They wanted to get back some of their horses, or to look for the white girl.”

“What white girl?”

“The daughter of the white-haired chief.”

“Is she here?”

“She is in the village. Has not my brother seen her?”

“No. I know nothing of her.”

“You will not be likely to see her for a while, as Good Ax, the head chief, means to take her into his lodge, and she has been shut up from the village.”

Wilder mused a little, and his musings were in this wise:

Why had Paul Robinette brought his daughter into that wilderness? Why had he, Fred Wilder, given himself up to an aimless and roving life? It was very foolish in both of them; but fate had led them to it. It was the fate of Mr. Robinette to be killed and scalped, and it might be the fate of him, Fred Wilder, to have come among the Blackfeet to be of service to the daughter of the murdered man. At all events, she was a woman, and it was his duty to befriend her. It was his duty, also, to befriend the two white captives, and their turn might come first. It would be well for him to see how far he might go with the Blackfeet.

Turning to White Shield, he said:

“What will be done with the white prisoners?”

“They will be burned.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. They are to be burned early to-morrow morning.”

“I will bet you, White Shield, ten packs of beaver-skins, that they will not be burned while Silverspur lives.”

“What does my brother mean?”

“I mean that I will not allow them to be burned.”

“What will you do?”

“Perhaps I will do nothing; but they shall not be burned.”

“Has my brother lost his senses? He surely does not mean what he says.”

“You will see that I mean it. I am going to the lodge, White Shield. I am tired of this deviltry.”

Wilder turned his back upon the crowd of dancing and yelling Indians, and retired to his lodge, where he pondered his own situation and that of Flora Robinette, until he fell asleep.

In the morning there was a great commotion in the village. Preparations were made for the torture of the two white captives, and all the Blackfeet were early astir. Two stout stakes were set in the ground, near the middle of the village, and the victims were brought to them, surrounded and followed by a motley throng of Indians, of all ages and both sexes.

Dennis Regan, who had not spoken a word since his vow of the previous night, was bound to one post, and Pap Byers to the other, and what may be called the small torturing commenced. Women and children assailed the white men with all sorts of opprobrious epithets, beat them with sticks, kicked them, pinched them, pulled their hair, and provoked them by every means in their power.

Byers hurled back their taunts indignantly, and abused the Blackfeet to the best of his ability. He knew what sort of a death they intended for him, and he hoped to arouse them to such fury that, in a moment of anger, they might kill him at once. He boasted of the number of their braves that he had slain, and accused them of cowardice, taunting them with not daring to take the life of a white man, even when he was bound before them. They could not hurt him, he said, and he dared them to do their worst, as a white warrior could teach them how to die. The Irishman remained silent. When he was spoken to, he pointed to his tongue, and shook his head; but not a word escaped his lips.

The warriors soon put a stop to this play. Scattering the women and children, they brought poles and twigs, which they piled in a circle, nearly waist high, around the victims. Then, amid diabolical yells and screeches, fire was put to the piles, and the torture commenced.

It was not to last long. Hardly had the flames begun to crackle among the twigs, when Fred Wilder, fully armed, strode into the throng, kicked away the burning poles, stamped out the fire, and took his stand near the prisoners, gazing defiantly at the crowd of savages.

The Blackfeet were astonished at his audacity. Some of them laid their hands upon their weapons; but all drew back, as if bewildered, and wondering what might happen next. After a few moments, Good Ax, the head chief, stepped forward and addressed the intruder.

“Why does Silverspur seek to interfere with his brothers? Has he forgotten that when he became a Blackfoot, he ceased to be a white man?”

“My heart is white, and always will be,” fiercely replied Wilder. “I can not stand by and see men of my own race murdered. What have these white men done to you, that you wish to burn them?”

“We caught them stealing our horses.”

“They had a right to try to recover the property which you had taken from them.”

“But the white men are the enemies of the Blackfeet.”

“Say, rather, that, the Blackfeet are the enemies of the white men, who have never mistreated you, and have never fought you except when you have compelled them to do so. Look at these men! One of them, as you can see, is not able to speak. Would you slay a man who has been stricken by the Great Spirit? I say that they shall not be burned while I live, and I know well that more than one of you will fall before I die.”

It is said that a wild beast will shrink from the steady glance of a brave man. So did the savages quail before the fearless eye and undaunted demeanor of Fred Wilder. His audacity seemed almost supernatural, and made them fear that he might have something to back him which they could not even guess at.

In a few minutes, however, this feeling passed away. They saw that he was but a man, as they were, and they began to think of punishing him for his bold attempt to spoil their sport. Their threatening looks and hostile attitudes caused him to raise his rifle and level it at the most demonstrative. In another moment there might have been bloodshed; but White Shield suddenly changed the face of affairs. Bursting through the throng, he took his stand by the side of his friend.

“White Shield is a warrior!” he exclaimed. “He is a great brave, and he never feared the face of an enemy. There is none who can lay cowardice or crime to the charge of White Shield. Shall he hang back, like a dog, when his brother is in danger? Silverspur is his sworn brother, and he is ready to die for his brother, whether he is right or wrong. He is not wrong. These white men are his friends, and the Blackfoot who would not try to save the life of his friend would be called a coward. Come, my brothers! Who will go to the spirit-land with White Shield and Silverspur?”

A number of the relatives of White Shield, both old and young, came forward, with their weapons in their hands, and ranged themselves by his side. As the hostile parties confronted each other, the affair seemed about to assume a serious aspect, when the head chief stepped forward and spoke.

“This is a small matter to us,” he said, “and we would do wrong to kill each other about it. One of these prisoners, as Silverspur has said, has been stricken by the Great Spirit, and we can easily give the life of the other to our white brother. Loose them from the stakes, but let them be securely guarded. They shall live, but they must not leave us until we move the village. Is Silverspur satisfied?”

Wilder expressed his satisfaction, and pressed the hand of the chief. When the prisoners had been led away, and the crowd had dispersed, he returned to his lodge with White Shield.

CHAPTER V.
THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

When Wilder and his Blackfoot friend entered their lodge, the former sat down without speaking. White Shield gazed at him for some time, with a sort of admiring awe.

“My brother is very brave,” said the Indian. “He is almost too brave. He has done a great thing to-day; but he came near losing his life. He had better be careful what he does now; for Good Ax looked at him very strangely, and the hearts of the warriors were hot.”

“White Shield is a true brother,” replied Wilder, as he grasped the hand of his friend. “Silverspur will never forget how his brother stood by him in danger. You tell me that I must be careful what I do; but there is one thing that I must do. I must see the girl, the daughter of the white-haired chief.”

The Indian shook his head, and was silent.

“I must see the girl,” repeated Wilder. “If you will help me, there will be no trouble about it. When I say that I will do a thing, I mean to do it.”

“I have told you that Good Ax means that she shall be his wife, and no one can oppose the head chief. My brother had better be careful what he does.”

“I tell you that I must see her, and I will see her. I only ask to see her and speak with her. If my brother will not help me, I will help myself.”

The Blackfoot sat in silence a few moments, looking strangely at his friend.

“Wait for me,” he said, as he arose and left the lodge.

After the lapse of an hour, White Shield returned, and beckoned to Wilder, who arose and followed him. They passed out of the village, and came to a small stream, on each side of which was a fine growth of timber. Entering the grove, White Shield pointed ahead of him.

“She is there,” he said. “I will wait for you, but will not hear you.”

As Wilder looked in the direction that was pointed out, he caught sight of a woman’s dress, near the trunk of a large tree. He hastened forward, and in a few moments was in the presence of Flora Robinette.

The young lady did not appear to be eager for the meeting. She did not move from where she stood, and looked at him with wonder and something of suspicion as he advanced and held out his hand.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A friend.”

“I wish I could believe it. I was told by the Indian who brought me here that, if I would wait, I would soon see one of my own race; but he said that you were no longer a white man; that you had joined the Blackfeet. What is your name?”

“I am called Fred Wilder; but it matters not what my name is. I am a white man and a friend. The Indian hardly told you the truth. He has taken a fancy to me, has adopted me as his brother, and has introduced me to his people; but I am far from considering myself one of them. This morning I saved two white men from death by fire, and I hope to be able to save you. It is certain that I shall use my best endeavors to do so. Before this I would have seen you; but I did not know that you were a captive, until I saw the Indians dancing around the scalps of your father and another man.”

“My father’s scalp! Good God! this is horrible. Did they tell you whose it was?”

“They told me that it was his, and then I learned the particulars of the attack upon his train.”

“There was another scalp, you say—what did it look like?” asked Flora, with an accent and an air of painful interest.

“It was the scalp of a white man, and the hair was black, short and curling.”

“It was not his,” muttered Flora, with a sigh of relief.

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Of no one in particular—one of our party. I thought that some of my friends might have followed the trail of the Indians. Do you know who those two white men were whom you saved from burning?”

“I do not know their names. One was an Irishman, with red hair, and he seemed to be dumb.”

“That might have been Dennis Regan; but he was any thing but dumb.”

“The other was a tall and lean man, with keen eyes, a crooked nose, and a very solemn face.”

“That was surely the man whom my father called Pap Byers. How did they happen to be captured?”

“They were trying to take horses from the Blackfeet, and were surprised. One was killed, and two were made prisoners.”

“Was there no other? Did you hear nothing more?”

“One man escaped, and he had a wonderful escape, if I understood the account of the Indians.”

“Who was he?”

“Really, Miss Robinette, you question me very closely concerning a person whom I have not seen. From what I have heard of him, it is my opinion that he was George Benning, one of Mr. Robinette’s partisans.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Flora, as her emotions found vent in a flood of tears.

“It is plain enough that this young lady loves George Benning,” thought Wilder. “He is a fine fellow, and I can’t blame her. Here is no chance for me to fall in love, if I wished to do so, and I don’t. She is very pretty; in fact, she is beautiful; but it is evident that I must go further before I find my fate.”

Flora advanced, and held out her hand.

“I hope you will pardon me,” she said, “if I have shown distrust of you. My father always spoke so harshly of men who had joined the Indians, that I have thought they must be very wicked men. I must trust you. I have no one else to look to, and God knows that I am grateful for your offers of assistance. Heaven has raised up a friend to me in my time of trouble, and I am indeed thankful. Do you think that you can deliver me from the hands of these savages?”

“I can try, and I hope you will not accuse me of boasting, when I say that I generally succeed in what I undertake.”

“Would they kill me if I should fail to escape?”