CHAPTER II.

SITTING BULL'S GANG OF RED MARAUDERS.

The slanting rays of the rising sun fell upon an immense Indian encampment that stretched for several miles along the left bank of the Little Horn, and could hardly have been less than a mile in width.

Doubtless such a gathering of redmen had not taken place for many years.

In addition to the several lodges composing the village proper, scores and even hundreds of temporary brush-wood shelters had been hastily constructed, which significant fact went to show that this immense assemblage of warriors, numbering very nearly three thousand, was a gathering from different tribes.

That mischief was intended by these warlike Sioux could be presumed from the fact of their being painted as for battle.

The sun had been shining for some time when two mounted Indians, coming from the plains away beyond the distant range of hills, appeared almost simultaneously on the high bluffs that lined the right bank of the river.

Dashing down the steep inclined plane they forded the Little Horn and rode directly into the village.

One lodge, more conspicuous than its fellows, was situated near the center of the place, and even an inexperienced eye might have discovered in it the resting-place of a great chief, even though the only conviction came from seeing the many sub-chiefs that hovered near by.

These two hard riders reached the lodge at nearly the same time, and throwing themselves to the ground, left their sweltering horses to take care of themselves, while they entered with that boldness the bearers of exciting news generally possess.

Old Sitting Bull was busily engaged in an earnest confab with some half dozen chiefs, and although he spoke only once in a while, his words were listened to respectfully by the rest.

All eyes were turned upon the new-comers, and a hush fell upon the assembly, for something seemed to tell them that great news was on the tapis. Yellow Hawk, (for this discomfited chief was one of the hard riders) managed to get in the first word, and when it was known that the far-famed Pandy Ellis was in their immediate neighborhood, more than one of these dusky braves felt his heart beat faster, for there was a terrible meaning attached to the old ranger's honest name, for all evil-doers.

When, however, the second courier spoke, a wild excitement seized upon the chiefs.

Custer the hard fighter, the yellow-haired devil, whom they had always feared, was charging along their trail and aiming for the village like a thunderbolt, with his cavalry regiment at his back.

Indians are not accustomed to speaking their thoughts during times of excitement, but the news loosened their tongues, and for several moments a hubbub arose in the head chief's lodge.

In the midst of this several white men, garbed as Indians, but with their faces painted, entered.

A moment only was needed to become acquainted with the state of affairs, and then one of them, a squatty individual, who had long been a pest to the border, under the name of Black Sculley, spoke a few words in the ear of Sitting Bull.

Whatever he said does not concern my narrative, but it had its effect upon the chief, who immediately became calm, and made a motion toward one who stood at the entrance of the lodge as a sort of door-keeper.

This individual signaled the waiting chiefs outside, and in another moment fully forty well-known leading Sioux were clustered together.

Indian councils from the time of Red Jacket and Tecumseh back to time immemorial have been windy affairs, in which much eloquence and debate was needed to settle that which had already been decided before the argument commenced; for being natural born orators the red sons of the plains and forest liked to hear their own voices.

In contrast with these, this council was very brief, only lasting about five minutes.

This proved that their dealings with the whites had affected the redskins.

After the chiefs separated, there was a wild commotion in the immense village.

Horses neighed, dogs barked, men shouted, and the din was increased by the thunder of hoofs as squad after squad of mounted braves, led by their chiefs, dashed down to the river and forded it.

In a lodge not far removed from that of the great chief, a leather-clad ranger lay, bound hand and foot.

It was Bolly Wherrit, the old-time chum and friend of Pandy Ellis.

He had been taken prisoner, fighting against overwhelming numbers, and had lain here without food for over twenty-four hours.

What his fate would doubtless be the old ranger knew well enough, but he had faced death too often to flinch now.

Something seemed to trouble him, however, for he occasionally gave vent to a groan and rolled restlessly about.

"Cuss the thing," he muttered at length. "Bolly Wherrit, ye're growing inter yer second childhood; thar's eggscitin' times comin' off now, and hyar ye lie tied neck and heel. Didn't I hyar what them infernal renegades talked 'bout jest then. Custer, my pet, a-comin', tearin', whoopin' at this hyar town wid his cavalry. Lordy, won't the yaller-har'd rooster clean 'em out; don't I know him though. Wonder ef Major Burt air along. Why didn't I wait fur Pandy. T'ole man tole me I'd get inter trouble, but consarn the luck, in course a woman's at the head o' it. Cud I stand it wen that purty face, runnin' over wid tears, war raised ter mine, an' she a pleadin'? No, sir, fool or not, I'd run through fire fur a woman, 'cause I kain't never furget my mother. That gal is in this hyar village. 'Cause why? Sumfin tells me so, and I've hed that feeling afore. Beside, ain't ole Sittin' Bull hyar, and cudn't I swar I heerd the voice o' that white devil she tole me about, Pedro Sanchez she called him, right aside this lodge. Bolly Wherrit, thar's no good talking, ef ye don't get outen this place in an hour, ye'll never leave it alive, fur when Custer sails in he never backs out, and the reds hev a failing fur braining their prisoners, 'specially men folks. Now do ye set ter work, and show these red whalps that a border man air sumpin like a bolt o' lightning."

From the manner in which Bolly set to work, it would be supposed that he had been making efforts at freeing his arms for some time back, and had only stopped to rest while holding this one-sided conversation with himself.

Somehow or other he had found a piece of a broken bottle, and had been sawing away at the cord securing his hands with this, one end being thrust into the ground, and held upright in the proper position.

Although his wrists and hands were badly lacerated by this rough method, the ranger possessed the grit to persevere.

Ten minutes after his soliloquy his hands separated. Bolly gave a sigh of relief, held the bloody members up for inspection, and then, without an instant's delay, seized upon the sharp-edged glass.

It had taken him hours to free his arms, as he was unable to see, and his position, while working, exceedingly uncomfortable; the cord securing his feet he severed in a few minutes.

Something like a chuckle escaped his lips as he stood upright. There was a mighty stretching of those cramped and tired limbs, and then Bolly was ready for business.

An ardent desire had seized upon him to take part in the attack which brave Custer was sure to make.

Fastening the cords around his ankles in a way that looked very secure, but which was treacherous, the ranger lay down upon the ground.

With his hand he quietly raised one of the skins composing the lodge and peeped out.

The opening thus formed was not over a couple of inches in length, but his keen eyes could see everything that was passing.

A grim smile lit up the ranger's features, as he saw the wild excitement that reigned throughout the camp.

"Ther askeered o' Custer; they know him mighty well, but by thunder they mean ter fight. It'll be the biggest Indian fight that this country ever saw, bust my buttons now ef 'twon't. Bolly Wherrit, ye must let t'other matter drop, and sail inter this, fur it'll be full o' glory and death."

Alas! how the words of the old ranger came true has been made manifest in a way that has caused the whole country to mourn.

Death was fated to ride triumphant in the ravine on the other shore; this valley would see such a red slaughter as the annals of Indian history have seldom presented.

Several hours passed on.

The warriors were too busy with other matters to even think of their prisoner just then, much less visit his secure quarters, and so Bolly was undisturbed.

Noon came and went.

The hot sun beat down upon the earth with great fury, but a gentle breeze in the valley did much toward cooling the air on this fatal twenty-fifth of June.

All at once the old trapper leaped wildly to his feet; this same light wind had carried to his ear the distant but approaching crash of firearms and the wild yells of opposing forces.

His frame quivered and seemed to swell with excitement.

"Yaller Har's at work. The best Indian fighter that ever lived hez struck ile. Bolly Wherrit, now's the time fur yer chance at glory. Whoop! hooray!"

With this shout the ranger burst out of the lodge like a thunderbolt, and not even giving himself an instant's time for reflection, hurled his body upon a guard who leaned idly against a post, listening to the sounds of battle.