The Prairie Chief. Robert Michael Ballantyne
Even the forms of the women and children were distinguishable, but not their faces.
“It won’t be easy to get at them by surprise,” whispered the trapper. “Their position is strong, and they keep a bright lookout; besides, the moon won’t be down for some hours yet—not much before daybreak.”
“Whitewing will take the prey from under their very noses,” returned the Indian.
“That won’t be easy, but I’ve no doubt you’ll try, an’ sure, Little Tim’s the man to back ye, anyhow.”
At that moment a slight rustling noise was heard. Looking through the bush, they saw the Blackfoot sentinel approaching. Instantly they sank down into the grass, where they lay so flat and still that it seemed as if they had vanished entirely from the scene.
When the sentinel was almost abreast of them, a sound arose from the camp which caused him to stop and listen. It was the sound of song. The missionary—the only man the Blackfoot Indians had not slain—having finished supper, had gathered some of the women and children round him, and, after an earnest prayer, had begun a hymn of praise. At first the Blackfoot chief was on the point of ordering them to cease, but as the sweet notes arose he seemed to be spell-bound, and remained a silent and motionless listener. The sentinel on the mound also became like a dark statue. He had never heard such tones before.
After listening a few minutes in wonder, he walked slowly to the end of the mound nearest to the singers.
“Now’s our chance, Whitewing,” said the trapper, rising from his lair.
The Indian made no reply, but descended the slope as carefully as he had ascended it, followed by his friend. In a short time they were back at the spot where the horses had been left in charge of Brighteyes.
Whitewing took his sister aside, and for a few minutes they conversed in low tones.
“I have arranged it all with Brighteyes,” said the Indian, returning to the trapper.
“Didn’t I tell ’ee,” said Tim, with a low laugh, “that women was good at helpin’ men in time o’ war? Depend upon it that the sex must have a finger in every pie; and, moreover, the pie’s not worth much that they haven’t got a finger in.”
To these remarks the young chief vouchsafed no answer, but gravely went about making preparations to carry out his plans.
While tying the three horses to three separate trees, so as to be ready for instant flight, he favoured his friend with a few explanations.
“It is not possible,” he said, “to take more than three just now, for the horses cannot carry more. But these three Brighteyes will rescue from the camp, and we will carry them off. Then we will return with our braves and have all the rest—if Manitou allows.”
The trapper looked at his friend in surprise. He had never before heard him make use of such an expression as the last. Nevertheless, he made no remark, but while the three were gliding silently over the prairie again towards the Blackfoot camp he kept murmuring to himself: “You’re a great puzzle, Whitewing, an’ I can’t make ye out nohow. Yet I make no doubt yer right. Whativer ye do comes right somehow; but yer a great puzzle—about the greatest puzzle that’s comed across my tracks since I was a squallin’ little babby-boy!”
Chapter Four.
Circumventing the Blackfeet
On reaching the neighbourhood of the Blackfoot camp, Whitewing, and his companions crept to the top of the eminence which overlooked it, taking care, however, to keep as far away as possible from the sentinel who still watched there.
Brighteyes proved herself to be quite as expert as her male companions in advancing like a snake through the long grass, though encumbered with a blanket wrapped round her shoulders. The use of this blanket soon became apparent. As the three lay prone on their faces looking down at the camp, from which the sound of voices still arose in subdued murmurs, the young chief said to his sister—
“Let the signal be a few notes of the song Brighteyes learned from the white preacher. Go.”
Without a word of reply, the girl began to move gently forward, maintaining her recumbent position as she went, and gradually, as it were, melted away.
The moon was still shining brightly, touching every object with pale but effective lights, and covering hillocks and plains with correspondingly dark shadows. In a few minutes Brighteyes had crept past the young sentinel, and lay within sight—almost within ear shot of the camp.
Much to her satisfaction she observed that the Indians had not bound their captives. Even the missionary’s hands were free. Evidently they thought, and were perhaps justified in thinking, that escape was impossible, for the horses of the party were all gathered together and hobbled, besides being under a strong guard; and what chance could women and children have, out on the plains on foot, against mounted men, expert to follow the faintest trail? As for the white man, he was a man of peace and unarmed, as well as ignorant of warriors’ ways. The captives were therefore not only unbound, but left free to move about the camp at will, while some of their captors slept, some fed, and others kept watch.
The missionary had just finished singing a hymn, and was about to begin to read a portion of God’s Word when one of the women left the group, and wandered accidentally close to the spot where Brighteyes lay. It was Lightheart.
“Sister,” whispered Brighteyes.
The girl stopped abruptly, and bent forward to listen, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her pretty brown face.
“Sister,” repeated Brighteyes, “sink in the grass and wait.”
Lightheart was too well trained in Indian ways to speak or hesitate. At once, but slowly, she sank down and disappeared. Another moment, and Brighteyes was at her side.
“Sister,” she said, “Manitou has sent help. Listen. We must be wise and quick.”
From this point she went on to explain in as few words as possible that three fleet horses were ready close at hand to carry off three of those who had been taken captive, and that she, Lightheart, must be one of the three.
“But I cannot, will not, escape,” said Lightheart, “while the others and, the white preacher go into slavery.”
To this Brighteyes replied that arrangements had been made to rescue the whole party, and that she and two others were merely to be, as it were, the firstfruits of the enterprise. Still Lightheart objected; but when her companion added that the plan had been arranged by her affianced husband, she acquiesced at once with Indian-like humility.
“I had intended,” said Brighteyes, “to enter the Blackfoot camp as if I were one of the captives, and thus make known our plans; but that is not now necessary. Lightheart will carry the news; she is wise, and knows how to act. Whitewing and Leetil Tim are hid on yonder hillock like snakes in the grass. I will return to then, and let Lightheart, when she comes, be careful to avoid the sentinel there—”
She stopped short, for at the moment a step was heard near them. It was that of a savage warrior, whose sharp eye had observed Lightheart quit the camp, and who had begun to wonder why she did not return.
In another instant Brighteyes flung her blanket round her, whispered to her friend, “Lie close,” sprang up, and, brushing swiftly past the warrior with a light laugh—as though amused at having been discovered—ran into camp, joined the group round the missionary, and sat down. Although much surprised, the captives were too wise to express their feelings. Even the missionary knew enough of Indian tactics to prevent him from committing himself. He calmly continued the reading in which he had been engaged, and the Blackfoot warrior returned to his place, congratulating himself, perhaps, on having interrupted the little plan of one intending runaway.
Meanwhile Lightheart, easily understanding her friend’s motives, crept in a serpentine fashion to the hillock, where she soon found Whitewing—to the intense but unexpressed joy of that valiant red man.
“Will Leetil Tim go back with Lightheart to the horses and wait, while his brother remains here?” said the young chief.
“No,