CHAPTER XV.

THE OLD HUNTER’S IDEA.

There was a touching plaintiveness to the tone of the Multuomah’s voice as he pronounced these words, and his hearers could but sympathize with him in his bereavement.

“Why, this is a kind of turn-about affair,” observed Glyndon. “First, you take the girl from the Yakimas, and then they retake her, and then the Prophet puts his finger in the pie. But is the girl really a Yakima?”

“No, I think not.”

“I’m glad of that, for I like you, and I don’t like the Yakimas. They’re mean cusses, and I’d like to see ’em all wiped out. What nation do you think the girl did belong to?”

“Her face was so white that I have often thought she was a daughter of the pale-faces,” answered Multuomah.

This reply surprised them all.

“How can that be?” demanded Glyndon.

“She may have been made a captive when a child by the Yakimas in one of their expeditions, either from a settler’s cabin or from some emigrant train,” rejoined Multuomah. “She understood English when she was brought into our village, and she taught it to me when we were children together.”

“That accounts for the ease with which you speak it,” remarked Lieutenant Gardiner.

“Yes.”

“Your knowledge of our language surprised me, but I can easily understand it now.”

Gummery Glyndon had grown very thoughtful.

“We must take this girl from him in spite of his medicine—whether it’s quackery or the genuine article,” said the old guide, as if coming out of a dream.

Multuomah’s dark eyes glistened.

“I came here for that purpose,” he answered. “I am willing to dare the Prophet’s power—but my braves—”

“You can’t count on them, eh?”

Multuomah shook his head doubtfully.

“They will not lift a hand against the Prophet,” he replied.

“We can fix that. They wouldn’t object to surrounding the Prophet’s party, and let us bring him to terms. Just explain to ’em that you want your gal, and that we are going to help you get her. That will make ’em feel all right, I’m thinking.”

“They will gain more confidence when they know the soldiers will aid them. They do not fear Smoholler’s braves, but his spirits.”

“Tell ’em they can not injure the white men.”

“That is their belief.”

“So much the better! Holloa! what’s broke loose now?”

This exclamation was drawn from Glyndon’s lips by a shout from one of the sentinels who guarded the breastwork. This shout was taken up by the other soldiers.

“Good heavens! the boys have escaped!” cried Lieutenant Gardiner, excitedly.

Glyndon, usually so placid, found his excitement contagious.

“Great Jericho! it’s more’n I expected!” he exclaimed. “I never thought to set eyes on ’em again.”

The shout of welcome at their appearance proved the regard in which the boys were held by the soldiers. They approached, rifle in hand, for their weapons had been restored to them by Smoholler when he suffered them to go free, and were overwhelmed with eager inquiries by Glyndon, Lieutenant Gardiner, Blaikie and Robbins.

Percy Vere recounted their adventure with the Prophet, and his narrative was embellished by supplementary remarks from Percy Cute, as he proceeded. Thus they told the story between them.

Their hearers listened to them incredulously; but that the boys stood before them, a living evidence of the truth of their story, they would not have believed it.

“The Prophet let you go?” cried Glyndon.

“As you see,” answered Percy Vere.

“Scot free,” supplemented Cute; “and give us these gimcracks to protect us from all Indians generally. Nice, ain’t they?”

“Amulets!” ejaculated Glyndon, examining them curiously.

“Yes, with the Prophet’s tetotum on ’em.”

“Totem, you mean.”

“Yes, that’s it; and we are to tote’em wherever we go, to keep us from harm, according to old Smo’.”

“Well, this just beats me,” cried Glyndon, in a bewildered manner. “Six of their braves sent to grass, and they let you off. That ain’t according to Indian custom, and I can’t understand it.”

“Smoholler’s customs are different from ours,” observed Multuomah.

“I should say so!”

Percy Cute took a comprehensive survey of the young chief.

“Holloa! have you taken this young chap prisoner?” he inquired.

“No; he is a friend. This is a Nez Perce chief—Multuomah.”

Cute offered his hand cordially to the chief.

“How are you, Multum-in-parvo?” he exclaimed.

Multuomah smiled and shook hands with Cute, who, with his irrepressible spirit of mischief, gave him his favorite hand-squeeze; but Cute was glad enough to withdraw his fat fingers, and dance away with a wry face. The answering squeeze had proved too much for him.

“He’s an Odd Fellow!” he remarked, as he straightened out his cramped fingers.

“How do you know that?” asked Percy Vere, enjoying his discomfiture.

“’Cause he’s given me the grip.”

“Served you right!” cried Glyndon. “No tricks upon travelers. And so you had a long talk with the Prophet?” he added to Percy Vere.

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him about your father?”

“I did.”