CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE WHITE AND RED CHIEFS.

Let us go back now to the point where that singular man, Red Hand, so nearly met death at the hands of the stranger. When Red Hand walked away from the girl and her father, there was a silence of several minutes; then the old man said:

“Pearl, you must not wander thus far from the retreat, in future, for my scouts bring me news of an invasion into our territory.”

“Are soldiers coming into the hills, father?”

“Soldiers or citizens, they are all the same to me, and I am determined to make these hills too hot to hold them. The man who has just left us doubtless belongs to one of these invading bands.”

“Father, why is it you so hate your race?” the girl asked. “Tell me why you hide away from our own people?”

“Pearl, never dare to question my actions again,” almost shrieked the old man.

Then he continued:

“You have food in plenty, clothes to wear, and what more do you want? Here no one molests us, and in the settlements and cities life is a continual struggle and all men are evil. Against all men I have a hate that will go with me to the grave. Pearl, you know my vow, and I repeat it: I will kill, or cause to be killed, every white man that comes into these hills.”

Pearl gazed upon the excited face of her father with a feeling of awe, and, accustomed to be wholly governed by him, she made no reply. After a little the old man walked up to the bodies of the dead Indians and examined them attentively. Then he said:

“Pearl, these redskins belong to the band of the young chief, White Slayer. Can he have ordered this attack on you?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” she answered; “but I do know they rushed upon me to make me a prisoner. I fled to that ledge for safety, and shot two of their number. Had not the brave man who has just left us come to my rescue, I should have been killed, I am certain.”

“Strange, very strange,” he declared. “Did you have any words with White Slayer when he was last at the retreat?”

“I told him I would never become his wife.”

The man looked startled.

“Then he it was who ordered this attack upon you. Come, Pearl, we must be off.”

Leading the way the old man started off up the gorge, followed by the girl, whose face had become strangely moody. After traversing a distance of several miles the man led the way up the steep hillside. For half an hour the two climbed up the mountain, until they came to a ledge, or shelf, half an acre in size, and above which the mountain towered to a vast height.

From this ledge a grand and extensive view was had of miles and miles of country. Far below lay valleys traversed by running streams and deep rocky cañons, where it seemed hardly possible for man to go.

Against the base of the cliff, and fronting the magnificent view, was built a log cabin, constructed for both defense and comfort. It was large but compactly put together, and the two windows commanded the only visible approach to the ledge, the one by which the old man and the girl had come.

The cabin had one door in front. This was open, and in it sat an old Indian woman, pounding coffee in a stone jar. Within, the cabin was divided into two rooms, the first containing a rude table in the center, a cupboard with dishes and pans, a rack filled with books; another upon which hung, ready for use, rifles, shotguns, pistols, and knives of various descriptions. In the corner was a cot of bear and beaver skins.

A small door opened into the second room, which was at once noticeable for its air of neatness and comfort. The bed was tempting in its cleanliness, and around the chamber was every indication that Pearl was an ingenious and tidy housekeeper.

A curtain, hung against the back of the cabin wall, was raised. This disclosed the opening of a large cave which extended far back into the interior of the mountain.

Entering the cabin, Pearl at once laid aside her rifle and accouterments, and set about aiding the Indian woman to prepare supper, while her father continued on through the rooms into the cave beyond.

As if familiar with the dark cavern, he walked on with quick step for some hundred yards, the cave gradually descending, until he came out into a small valley on the other side of the hill. A well-worn path led across the valley. Following this, the old man skirted the base of the hill, and after a further walk of a mile suddenly came upon a rocky shelf.

The scene that now met the view of the strange old man was a lovely valley spread out at his feet, for he was following a pathway that encircled a high hill.

Through the valley ran a winding stream, upon both banks of which were a score of Indian wigwams. Through the open peaks of the wigwams the blue smoke curled lazily upward to mingle with the clouds above.

Far above, the hilltops were painted in golden colors from the setting sun; but below, the valley was cast in shadow, for night was coming on. In the background of the scene, and close to the base of the hills upon either side of the valley, were hundreds of horses and cattle, grazing upon the rich grass that sprang up in wild luxuriance beneath their feet.

Here and there squaws were to be seen hurrying to and fro with arms full of wood brought from the forest, and lying in idleness upon the banks of the stream were lazy warriors looking upon their wives preparing the evening meal and doing all the work.

Groups of children skurried hither and thither in glee, and older ones, those youths who were aspiring to be mighty braves when their sun of manhood should rise, were swimming in the waters of the river, or practicing at targets with their bows and arrows.

It was a strange and picturesque scene, one only met with upon the frontier of our own land. Yet the old man seemed to care nothing for it, as he hurried down the steep hillside.

As he entered the camp, much respect was shown him by the Indians he met. Yet he noticed none of them, as he bent his way toward a large lodge near the center of the encampment.

In front of this wigwam lay an Indian, reclining at length upon a bearskin. As the white man approached, he arose and greeted him. He was a warrior of striking and noble appearance, one of the noblest stripe of Indian braves, for his form was literally perfect, and his face almost handsome.

His attire was also far better than that usually seen among red men, his leggings being handsomely bordered, as was also a hunting shirt of the finest dressed deerskin.

A coronet of gorgeously dyed feathers surmounted his head, and in his belt was stuck an ivory-handled bowie knife, a tomahawk, ingeniously carved, and a revolver, while by his side lay a silver-mounted rifle.

“The White Slayer is glad to see the Gray Chief,” said this Indian. “Will he enter the wigwam of his red brother?”

The young warrior spoke with a dignity and politeness that seemed natural to him.

“No; White Slayer is false to me. Why did he attempt to carry the Pearl of my heart from her cabin home?” angrily replied the white man, whom the Indians called Gray Chief.

A flush stole into the red face of the young chief at the charge. For a moment he was silent, but then said earnestly:

“The heart of the White Slayer is not here in his bosom, but with the paleface maiden on the hill. She is the dewdrop that refreshes his life, yet she turns her eyes from the White Slayer, though he is the chief of his tribe.”

“All true, chief; but did you expect to win the girl by force?”

“Could the White Slayer use his arms toward the Pearl of the Hills?” indignantly said the Indian.

“Yet you sent five of your braves to take my Pearl captive.”

“Would the Gray Chief trifle with White Slayer, or does he speak with a false tongue?” said the chief.

Glancing into the Indian’s face, the old man read there only truth, and felt that he had not ordered the violence done to Pearl. Then in a few words he told the young chief all that had occurred. With a surprised frown White Slayer heard him through.

Then he said:

“The young men who thus acted toward the Pearl of the Hills were squaw braves, and they deserved their fate. White Slayer knows who has done this wrong to the Pearl, and he shall make his knife drink blood for it; but, Gray Chief, the palefaces must not come into our lands. They must be swept back upon the prairies.”

The white man smiled, for he was well pleased with these words.

“That is my opinion, too,” he declared, “and I am glad to see you are of the same mind. Now listen to me: Scouts have brought news that there are two bands of palefaces marching into our hills, and I wish you to assemble your warriors and prepare them for the warpath.

“Do not act in haste,” he urged, “for those men come here to remain, take my word for it. What we want to do is to bide our time, and so lay our plans that not one paleface shall ever tread the prairie sward again.”

“The Gray Chief hates his people,” quietly said the chief.

“Hate! I abhor, I curse them; and, White Slayer, when the scalp of the last man of these bands hangs upon yonder war pole, I promise you that my Pearl shall gladden your wigwam with her presence.”

The eyes of White Slayer glittered with joy, but he said quietly:

“It shall be as the Gray Chief says. In one moon there shall be five hundred warriors upon the warpath of the palefaces. White Slayer has said it.”

“It pleases me to hear you say it, chief; and let me tell you, that a great foe to your people is in yonder valley--a man before whom your stoutest warriors tremble. I saw him.”

“The Sioux warriors never fly from a foe; they know no fear,” proudly returned the chief.

“And yet I have seen Sioux braves, who, when a score in number, dared not face that man.”

“Who is this great brave?” asked the chief, with considerable interest.

“Buffalo Bill, the scout!”

In spite of himself the young chief flinched at the name, and his eagle eye glanced quickly around the surrounding hills, rapidly darkening before the approach of night.

“He is a great brave; but his scalp will yet be taken,” replied White Slayer, with the braggadocio spirit natural to the redskin.

The old man’s eyes lighted with triumph.

“See that it is. Now I will go back to my home in the hills, for I like not your lowlands, chief.”

So saying, the old man walked rapidly back the way he had come, his thoughts too busy to bestow more than a passing glance upon the Indian village. It was now hidden in gloom, excepting here and there where a camp fire glimmered in front of some wigwam, whose lord had been late in returning to the bosom of his red family, and where the patient squaw was busy in preparing him his supper.

After a rapid walk Gray Chief reached his cabin, and found a humble but substantial supper awaiting him. After eating it, he lighted his brierwood pipe, and repaired to the ledge to smoke and think over the murderous plan he had laid for the destruction of those of his own race.