CHAPTER XX.

ONEOTAH’S MEMORIES.

Percy Vere was too much accustomed to Cute’s nonsense to pay much heed to it. He continued his inquiries of Oneotah.

“And you were in the power of the Yakima tribe, you say, when he found you—had you been taken a captive by that tribe?”

She nodded assent.

“They took you away from the Nez Perces, but if I remember aright, your infancy was passed among the Yakimas.”

“So I told you.”

“Do you know how you fell into their hands in the first place?”

“I do not.”

They had paused beside a little brook which ran among the rocks, seeking an outlet to the river.

Percy was more and more satisfied that his idea was a correct one, and that the Antelope Boy, or Oneotah, was of white origin. He was tempted to ask her to remove the singular mask she wore, and let him look upon her face, but the thought that she would probably decline to do so restrained him, and he concluded to wait for a better opportunity.

“I am upon the verge of a discovery,” he told himself. “I feel convinced of it. The Mystic Cavern will clear away every doubt from my mind. But if this is Glyndon’s child, the old hunter should know it; though I dare say he would not have any objection to her marrying this young Nez Perce chief, Multuomah.”

This thought led him to resume his questions.

“Your first recollection, then, dates from the Yakima village?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Oneotah, answering his questions with great frankness.

“Had you any father there?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Nor mother?”

“None that ever claimed me.”

“Have you any recollection of a mother?”

Oneotah shook her head, pensively.

“No,” she answered; “memory recalls no mother’s face gently bending over her infant treasure; no father watching with fond delight the playful gambols of his child, tracing in the little face before him the charms of her who was his young heart’s choice.”

“Nor had you other kindred?”

She shook her head again, with the same plaintive expression.

“I can recall no sister’s tenderness, no brother’s boisterous love,” she rejoined. “Amid the dim phantoms of the past, that recollection brightens into reality, one scene appears the strongest—clearest to my mind.”

Percy Vere was much interested in Oneotah’s recollections of the past.

“What scene was that?” he asked.

“It was on the plain near where the White Mountain towers to the clouds.”

“Mount Rainier?”

“So the white men call it. It was five years ago.”

“How old were you then?”

Oneotah reckoned by “moons,” but Percy had no difficulty in estimating her age at that period to have been thirteen years.

“It was told to me that, when I grew old enough, I was to be the bride of Howlish Wampo.”

“There’s a name!” interrupted Cute, who had kept remarkably quiet for him; but the fact was, he was as much interested as Percy in Oneotah’s narration. “Who christened him I should like to know? You didn’t fancy Mr. Howlish Wampo, eh?”

“I shuddered whenever he looked at me.”

“I don’t wonder at that, considering your prospect of becoming Mrs. Howlish Wampo. Is he any relative to Wampum?”

“Be quiet!” cried Percy. “Your tongue is like a mill wheel when it once gets started.”

“When the wind blows, Then the mill goes!”

sung Cute.

“You objected, then, to this proposed marriage?” Percy said to Oneotah, continuing his inquiries.

“Yes; and I resolved to escape from him. Chance aided my design. Our little village was surprised by a party of Nez Perces, led by a chief named Owaydotah, and I willingly became his captive.”

“He took you to the Nez Perce village?”

“Yes.”

“And there you met the young chief, Multuomah?”

Oneotah’s voice sunk to a musical whisper as she answered:

“Yes.”

Percy smiled, significantly.

“You did not find the same objection to him as to Howlish Wampo?”

“No. I was very happy in the Nez Perce village. But Howlish Wampo was resolved to get me again into his power. When an Indian vows revenge or seeks redress for any injury inflicted upon him he will wait patiently through long years for a favorable opportunity to accomplish his designs. So Howlish Wampo watched and waited, and, at last, a cruel chance made me again his captive.”

“He succeeded in surprising you?”

“Yes; and conveyed me back to the Yakima village. Here I was told that I must become his wife. I gave myself up to despair.”

“That was a year ago.”

“Yes; but when hope had abandoned me, when my dread doom seemed inevitable, Smoholler suddenly appeared in the village. He demanded me of the chief, and Howlish Wampo dared not refuse him.”

“That is strange! And the chief yielded you up to Smoholler?”

“He did; for he feared the power of the great Prophet of the Snakes.”

“And I don’t wonder, for he’s a regular anaconda!” interjected Cute. “But won’t his Snakeship get tired of waiting for us?”

“True, he will wonder what detains us,” answered Oneotah. “Come!”

She led the way up the course of the brook.

“But what plea could Smoholler put forward to claim you?” urged Percy, as he followed her.

“He said I was his child, and that the Yakimas stole me from him.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“And did Howlish Wampo believe him?”

“He must, or he would not have given me up to him.”

“That’s so. But he can’t be your father!” cried Percy, earnestly.

This exclamation surprised Oneotah.

“Why not?” she demanded.

Percy could not very well explain the cause of his doubts to her.

“Because—because,” he stammered. “No matter! But do you think he is your father?”

“I do!” she answered, with decision.