CHAPTER XXII.

THE SEARCH IS ENDED.

In the impenetrable gloom that now surrounded them, Percy could not direct his steps toward the platform on which the figures had appeared. He paused in bewilderment, amazed by what he had beheld.

“It is wonderful!” he exclaimed.

“I hope you are satisfied now,” cried Cute.

“I am,” returned Percy. “Where are you?”

“Here I am.”

Cute arose, and Percy grasped him by the arm.

“A word in your ear,” he whispered, impressively. “When they return to us—as they shortly will—and conduct us to a place where there is a fire, as is probable, contrive to knock off Oneota’s Antelope head, as you promised to do. You understand?”

“Oh, yes; I’m fly! If she turns out to be the White Angel—”

“Why then, _Smoholler is my father_!”

“Jumping Jerusalem! you don’t mean it?”

“I do.”

“That accounts for the milk in the cocoanut.”

“Hush! I hear footsteps. See, there is the glimmering of a light.”

“It is the Antelope with a torch, and her head on, as before. But I’ll behead her. Just you wait.”

“But don’t hurt her.”

“Oh, no; I’ll decapitate her in the gentlest manner possible.”

Oneotah drew near, carrying a torch in her hand. The way in which she had approached proved that the cavern was divided into several apartments, from one of which she had suddenly emerged bearing the torch, whose light revealed her presence.

“Come,” she said, as she reached them.

“But tell me—” began Percy.

“No questions now,” she interrupted quickly. “This is the Cave of the Shadows—let us leave it for a more cheerful place. Come.”

She led the way and the boys followed her, nothing loth to leave that dismal, tomb-like apartment. The way proved a long and winding one, and appeared to be a gradual ascent. Percy Vere could see by the light of Oneotah’s torch that they were in a kind of rocky gallery, or subterranean passage, a water-course formerly, though now entirely dry.

After a tedious and tiresome ascent, during which the only words spoken were muttered complaints from Cute as he scraped his shins against projecting rocks, they emerged into a small but comfortable-looking chamber. A fire burned brightly in a natural fire-place in one corner, and as no smoke came into the chamber, it was evident that there was a vent in the rocky roof above that served as a chimney. The light of the fire made the little chamber look cheerful, and disclosed its belongings.

Considerable care had been expended in making it comfortable, and every formation of the rocky chamber had been converted to a useful purpose. Thus a huge square block of stone had been arranged for a table, and smaller stones placed around it to serve as seats. Aromatic bushes had been piled in little odd corners, and were covered with skins to serve as couches. Various weapons were hung upon the walls, mingled with the skins, and skulls, and horns of a variety of animals.

In short, this strange apartment bore a picturesque appearance, and seemed the fit home of a barbaric chief. Nor was the chief wanting, for Smoholler was there; but he had laid aside his head-dress and cloak, and his long black hair, which was almost as thick and as coarse as a lion’s mane, hung down upon his shoulders. His face was still disguised in its war-paint, though he appeared to have changed it in some respects since they had last seen him.

He was engaged in a peculiar occupation for a great Prophet and chief, as he was cooking venison steaks before the fire, and the odor of the meat saluted the nostrils of the boys most gratefully.

“By king! this is something like!” exclaimed Cute. “Supper with the Prophet.”

Smoholler laughed.

“Boys must eat,” he answered. “Have you not heard that the Indians are celebrated for their hospitality?”

“I don’t know much about Indians in general,” replied Cute, “but you are a particular instance, and hard to beat. I don’t think there are many like you.”

“Smoholler is the great leader of the red-men,” answered the Prophet, sententiously. “In all this land there is no other chief like him.”

“That’s so!” affirmed Cute. “I’ll bet my bottom dollar on you.”

Percy Vere, who had been gazing about him, curiously, now said:

“Is not this near the top of the cliff?”

Oneotah placed her torch in a niche in the wall.

“Come,” she said.

She gave him her hand, led him into a dark passage, turned abruptly to the right after proceeding a few steps, and checked Percy’s further advance. He gazed forward. The sky was overhead, studded with innumerable stars. Far below, down in the gloom of night, a watch-fire sent forth its ruddy glare.

“It is the camp of the surveyors!” he exclaimed, surprisedly.

Oneotah indulged in a musical laugh, as if she rather enjoyed his surprise.

“Yes,” she answered.

“And it was here that the White and Black Spirits of Smoholler appeared to us?”

“Yes.”

Every thing was becoming plain to him now. He made no other comment, however, but followed Oneotah back into the chamber—the aerie of the Prophet.

The table was soon spread by Oneotah’s deft fingers, and they sat down to their repast, the boys finding their appetites well-sharpened by the events of the night. But little was said until their hunger was satisfied, and then Smoholler pushed back his plate, saying:

“What think you of the revelations of the Mystic Cavern? You will be satisfied now to return to your mother and tell her that your father is dead?”

“No, for I think he still lives,” returned Percy; and he made Cute a significant gesture toward Oneotah.

“Still lives?” echoed the Prophet.

“Yes; and is known by the name of Smoholler!”

“Jumping Jerusalem!” exclaimed Cute, in pretended amazement, and he made a clutch at one of the horns of the antelope’s head, and twitched it dexterously away from Oneotah, revealing her white face, and luxuriant black hair.

“And there is the White Spirit!” continued Percy. “No wonder that you could persuade these ignorant Indians that she is an angel, for she is lovely enough to be one. Father, you will not deny me?”

Smoholler gave him his hand.

“No; for I am proud of such a son,” he answered. “You have penetrated my mysteries, but I care not, as I intended to reveal myself to you; but my followers must never know the deceit I have practiced upon them. I have used my chemical knowledge in the manufacture of colored fires with great effect. You have discovered who the angel was; I need scarcely tell you that the Fiend was myself. Oneotah has been my only confederate. And I am likely to lose her, for love has found his way to her heart.”

“My father, I will never desert you,” cried Oneotah. “I will still be your White Spirit, if you wish it.”

“No, Oneotah; you have served my purpose well, and now you shall reap your reward. Your lover, Multuomah, is in yonder camp, and when they return you shall go with them. My power is so well established now that I can do without my White Spirit.”

She beamed a grateful smile upon him.

“It will aid your power, father,” she cried; “for Multuomah will become your friend, and he will, one day, be the head chief of the Nez Perces.”

“True; you see how politic she is; though I must confess that such an alliance has long been one of my calculations.”

“Why have you made her think she is your daughter?” asked Percy.

“Because I wanted something to love me; my heart was not satisfied with being feared alone,” answered the Prophet, feelingly. “I found her in the power of a brutal savage, and saved her from the degrading fate of becoming his wife. I saw by her face that she was the child of white parents, and so I claimed her as mine.”

Oneotah looked disappointed at this revelation.

“Then you are not my father?” she cried.

“No, Oneotah; only by adoption.”

“Your real father is in our camp,” said Percy. “A hunter, named Glyndon. This, we are all quite assured, is the case.”

The Prophet looked surprised. “Is it so?” he asked.

Percy briefly recounted Glyndon’s story, as he had repeatedly revealed it to the boys and the lieutenant.

“Undoubtedly she is his daughter,” responded Smoholler; “but for her own good, and mine, she had better be considered my daughter.”

“I shall never love any other father!” cried Oneotah.

“This seems hard upon Glyndon,” remarked Percy.

“Why so? He has long considered her dead. Let him content himself with seeing her happy, and, if he is a sensible man, he will do so. Oneotah, as the supposed daughter of the Great Prophet of the Snakes, will receive a consideration among the Nez Perces that would be denied to her as the daughter of a simple hunter. Besides, it makes a tribe, which has been inclined to be inimical, friendly toward me. I must do all I can to consolidate my power.”

“Then you will not return to your home?”

“Never. What is past is past. Discussion upon the subject would be idle. Guy Vere is dead, and Smoholler, the Prophet, lives, to found the greatest Indian nation that has ever existed in this country. I will give you gems that will enrich you and your mother for life; but when you leave me, forget me. It will be best. Oneotah shall go with you, and the survey can proceed, for I will no longer obstruct it. I have changed my views concerning the railroad. I think I was wrong in my calculation of the injury it might do me. I shall return to my village at Priest’s Rapids. Here are beds at your disposal. Oneotah has her own separate apartment. Let us sleep.”

Oneotah withdrew through one of the passages, and the Prophet and the boys disposed themselves upon the couches of skins and fragrant herbs. Sleep came to them speedily.

In the morning they were up with the sun. The Prophet gave Percy a little pouch of deer-skin that contained a fortune in precious stones, and after partaking of a breakfast, and exchanging an affectionate farewell with their strange host, the boys and Oneotah departed. But she no longer wore the boy’s dress and antelope’s head—she had discarded them for the rich costume of an Indian Princess, for was she not going to her betrothed lord?

I have not space to linger over a description of the surprise that their arrival at the camp created, or the numerous inquiries that were addressed to them.

Glyndon could not determine whether Oneotah was his daughter or not, and she showed no disposition to acknowledge him as a father. She had long considered herself the daughter of the great Smoholler, and, notwithstanding what he had said, she still clung to that belief. Percy saw enough in her face to convince him that she was Glyndon’s child, but, under the circumstances, he deemed it best not to interfere in the matter.

Multuomah preferred to receive her as Smoholler’s daughter, and conveyed her to his village, where their nuptials were celebrated with great pomp.

Percy Vere and Percy Cute remained with the expedition until the survey was completed, and then returned home.

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes

—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by _underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.