CHAPTER XIII.

MULTUOMAH.

When Gummery Glyndon jumped into the river to escape from his pursuers, he still clutched his trusty rifle by its barrel, and he held fast to it, as the swift current swept him rapidly down-stream.

The Indians did not follow him into the river, but paused upon its bank, and began to hastily reload their guns. The loss they had sustained in their attack upon the hunter and the boys had rendered them furious for vengeance. But the current swept Glyndon out of sight, for the bank was thickly wooded, before they could bring their guns to bear upon him.

They discharged them, notwithstanding, in the direction in which he had gone.

Glyndon laughed as he heard the harmless discharge.

“Trying to shoot me round a corner,” he muttered. “Well, they won’t get my ha’r this time; but the boys are done for—poor lads! poor lads!”

He shook his gray head sorrowfully over this reflection. Then he saw the trunk of a tree floating in the stream ahead of him. He struck out for it, gained it, and ensconced under its further side, floated with it down the stream. As he went with the current, he made good headway, and soon reached the camp of the surveyors.

A shout from the bank announced that he was observed and recognized as he approached, and the members of the party clustered upon the bank to receive him, as he guided his log toward the shore. At this point the river was fordable, and the banks were sandy and sloping. His feet touched bottom as he came to the sand-bar that stretched across the entire width of the stream, and he allowed the log to float away, and walked ashore.

“What luck?” demanded Lieutenant Gardiner, as the gaunt figure of the old hunter drew near.

“Bad!” answered Glyndon, laconically; and he briefly related to Gardiner, Blaikie and Robbins the particulars of his scout.

All were of his opinion that little mercy would be shown to the boys by their captors, and they deeply lamented their untimely fate.

“Do you know what tribe these Indians belong to?” asked Gardiner.

“They’re Smohollers, I reckon,” replied Glyndon.

“Did you see him with them?”

“That’s more than I can say, for I don’t know him. So I might have seen him without knowing it. There was a chief at the head of ’em, and he acted differently from Injun chiefs in general, for he charged right down upon us, without stopping to count the cost, and that was what flaxed us—for they just drew our fire, and were upon us without giving us a chance to reload; and there was too many of ’em for a hand-to-hand fight. I managed to get out of it, but I had to leave the boys. There was no help for it.”

The old hunter uttered these words in an exculpatory manner, as if he thought himself responsible, in a measure, for the misfortune that had befallen them.

“This attack looks as if the Indians were determined to prevent us from proceeding in our survey,” remarked Robbins.

“That ain’t the worst of it,” rejoined Glyndon. “They ain’t a-going to allow us to stop here long. So just look out for a brush. I hope you have been fixing things here, leftenant,” he continued, turning to Gardiner.

“Come and see,” replied the lieutenant, who wished to have the old hunter’s opinion on the measures he had taken for the protection of the camp.

A semicircular breastwork, composed of felled trees and the loose large stones lying about, had been constructed, running from the river around the grove and back to the river again, completely guarding all approach to the camp, except by the river, which was considered to be protection enough in itself.

Sentinels were posted at different points, and the utmost vigilance observed. The quick discovery of Glyndon’s approach was a proof of this; for the river was watched as well as the ravine.

That there was an approach to the camp over the precipitous cliff to the right was a circumstance that Lieutenant Gardiner was yet to learn; not that it made his position more insecure, as his breastwork was some distance from the cliff.

Within the grove, and the breastwork, were the animals and the implements of the party, and Ike Yardell, seeing the probability of remaining there several days, had called upon Corney Donohoe and Jake Spatz to assist him in building a fireplace of stones; a substantial affair that would assist his culinary efforts.

Gummery Glyndon expressed himself highly satisfied with the condition in which the camp had been placed during his absence.

“Smoholler can never drive us out of this,” he said. “He don’t care much for the lives of his men, that’s certain, but he can’t take this place in a single charge, and it will cost him pretty dear to try it.”

“Have you any idea of the force under his command?” asked Lieutenant Gardiner.

“Nigh onto fifty, I should judge by the looks of his trail.”

“We can drive off double that number.”

“Yes; but I have an idea that he has a lot more coming. He can set all the other tribes round here against us; and if he should muster three or four hundred warriors in front of us, it would make things look squally for us.”

“It would, indeed. They might flank us on the other bank of the river, and so hem us in, and starve us into submission. But I have an idea that this obstruction will only be temporary, and that we shall be permitted to proceed.”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Glyndon, decidedly. “We have got to whip these Injuns and drive ’em away—that’s the only way that we shall ever ever get rid of ’em. And we must have some help to do it.”

“What help can we get?”

“Play the old game here, and set Injuns to fighting Injuns. Send for a war-party of the Nez Perces.”

“Will they fight against this Indian Prophet?” asked Gardiner, doubtfully.

“They’ll fight against the Yakimas, Umatillas, and Cayuses, who are likely to side with him, and if they ’tend to them, we can take care of the Smohollers.”

“But where can we find a party of these Nez Perces?”

“There’s generally some of ’em at Fort Walla Walla, as their country is the other side of the Blue Mountains. I’m thinking it might be our best plan to go back to the fort, and strengthen our party for a fresh start.”

“Or you might go to the fort and see what you could do in the way of obtaining a reinforcement among the friendly Indians,” suggested Gardiner. “I am confident that I could hold this position until you return. Let us consult the surveyors, and get their ideas upon the subject.”

“Very good—two heads are better than one. Let’s have a council of war on the subject. Holloa! What’s up now?”

This question was caused by a sudden commotion in the camp, in the direction of the river. They hurried to the bank. A young Indian, whose dress proclaimed him a chief, was riding his horse across the river. He had proclaimed himself a friend to the sentinels, and was suffered to advance unmolested.

“It is Multuomah!” exclaimed Glyndon.

“Do you know him?” asked Gardiner.

“Like a book!—and he’s just the man we want, for he’s a war-chief of the Nez Perces.”

“Good! He is welcome.”

The young chief crossed the river, and rode up to the assembled group that awaited his coming. He dismounted with an easy grace, and in a manner that denoted his belief that he was among friends.

“How d’ye do, Multuomah?” cried Glyndon, extending his hand, cordially.

The young chief recognized him pleasantly.

“The Gray Hunter!” he returned. “It is good. He can tell these white men that Multuomah is their friend.”

“That’s so. You are the youngest chief of the Nez Perces, but you are the smartest one of the lot.”