The Prairie Chief by Robert Michael Ballantyne (reading cloud ebooks .txt) 📕

the valorous way in which they had that day stormed the fort of their pale-face enemies and driven them out; after which, losing somehow the thread of his discourse, he fell back on an appallingly solemn look, blinked, and sat down.

This was the signal for the recurrence of the approving "Ho's" and "Hi's," the gratifying effect of which, however, was slightly marred when silence was restored by a subdued "Hum" from the cheeky comrade.

Directing a fierce glance at that presumptuous brave, Rushing River was about to give vent to words which might have led on to the fighting stage, when he was arrested, and, with his men, almost petrified, by a strange fizzing noise which seemed to come from the earth directly below them.

Incomprehensible sounds are at all times more calculated to alarm than sounds which we recognise. The report of a rifle, the yell of a foe, could not have produced such an effect on the savages as did that fizzing sound. Each man grasped his tomahawk, but sat still, and turned pale. The fizzing sound was interspersed with one or two cracks, which intensified the alarm, but did not clear up the mystery. If they had only known what to do they would have done it; what danger to face, they would have faced it; but to sit there inactive, with the mysterious sounds increasing, was almost intolerable.

Rushing River, of all the band, maintained his character for reckless hardihood. He sat there unblenched and apparently unmoved, though it was plain that he was intensely watchful and ready. But the foe assailed him where least expected. In a little hole right under the very spot on which he sat lay one of the zigzag crackers. Its first crack caused the chief, despite his power of will and early training, to bound up as if an electric battery had discharged him. The second crack sent the eccentric thing into his face. Its third vagary brought it down about his knees. Its fourth sent it into the gaping mouth of the cheeky one. At the same instant the squibs and candles burst forth from all points, pouring their fires on the naked shoulders of the red men with a hiss that the whole serpent race of America might have failed to equal, while the other zigzags went careering about as if the hut were filled with evil spirits.

To say that the savages yelled and jumped, and stamped and roared, were but a tame remark. After a series of wild bursts, in sudden and violent confusion which words cannot describe, they rushed in a compact body to the door. Of course they stuck fast. Rushing River went at them like a battering-ram, and tried to force them through, but failed. The cheeky comrade, with a better appreciation of the possibilities of the case, took a short run and a header right over the struggling mass, _a la harlequin_, and came down on his shoulders outside, without breaking his neck.

Guessing the state of things by the nature of the sounds, Big Tim removed the table from under the ponderous weight, lifted the re-adjusted trap-door, and, springing up, darted into the hut just in time to bestow a parting kick on the last man that struggled through. Running to the breastwork, he beheld his foes tumbling, rushing, crashing, bounding down the track like maniacs--which indeed they were for the time being--and he succeeded in urging them to even greater exertions by giving utterance to a grand resonant British cheer, which had been taught him by his father, and had indeed been used by him more than once, with signal success, against his Indian foes.

Returning to the cavern after the Indians had vanished into their native woods, Big Tim assisted the preacher up the ladder, and, taking him into the hut after the smoke of the fireworks had cleared away, placed him in his own bed.

"You resemble your father in face, Big Tim, but not in figure," said the missionary, when he had recovered from the exhaustion caused by his recent efforts and excitement.

"My white father says truth," replied the hunter, with slightly humorous glances at his huge limbs. "Daddy is little, but he is strong--uncommon strong."

"He used to be so when I knew him," returned the preacher, "and I dare say the twenty years that have passed since then have not changed him much, for he is a good deal younger than I am--about the same age, I should suppose, as my old friend Whitewing."

"Yes, that's so," said the hunter; "they're both about five-an'-forty or there-away, though I doubt if either o' them is quite sure about his age. An' they're both beginning to be grizzled about the scalp-locks."

"Your father, although somewhat reckless in his disposition," continued the preacher, after a pause, "was a man of earnest mind."

"That's a fact, an' no mistake," returned Big Tim, examining a pot of soup which his bride had put on the fire to warm up for their visitor. "I doubt if ever I saw a more arnest-minded man than daddy, especially when he tackles his victuals or gets on the track of a grizzly b'ar."

The missionary smiled, in spite of himself, as he explained that the earnestness he referred to was connected rather with the soul and the spiritual world than with this sublunary sphere.

"Well, he is arnest about that too," returned the hunter. "He has often told me that he didn't use to trouble his head about such matters long ago, but after that time when he met you on the prairies he had been led to think a deal more about 'em. He's a queer man is daddy, an' putts things to ye in a queer way sometimes. `Timmy,' says he to me once--he calls me Timmy out o' fondness, you know--`Timmy,' says he, `if you comed up to a great thick glass wall, not very easy to see through, wi' a door in it, an' you was told that some day that door would open, an' you'd have to go through an' live on the other side o' that glass wall, you'd be koorious to know the lie o' the land on the other side o' that wall, wouldn't you, and what sort o' customers you'd have to consort wi' there, eh?'

"`Yes, daddy,' says I, `you say right, an' I'd be a great fool if I didn't take a good long squint now an' again.'

"`Well, Timmy,' says he, `this world is that glass wall, an' death is the door through it, an' the Bible that the preacher gave me long ago is the Book that helps to clear up the glass an' enable us to see through it a little better; an' a Blackfoot bullet or arrow may open the door to you an' me any day, so I'd advise you, lad, to take a good squint now an' again.' An' I've done it, too, Preacher, I've done it, but there's a deal on it that I don't rightly understand."

"That I do not wonder at, my young friend; and I hope that if God spares me I may be able to help you a little in this matter. But what of Whitewing? Has he never tried to assist you?"

"Tried! He just has; but the chief is too deep for me most times. He seems to have a wonderful grip o' these things himself, an' many a long palaver he has wi' my daddy about 'em. Whitewing does little else, in fact but go about among his people far an' near tellin' them about their lost condition and the Saviour of sinners. He has even ventur'd to visit a tribe o' the Blackfeet, but his great enemy Rushin' River has sworn to scalp him if he gets hold of him, so we've done our best to hold him back--daddy an' me--for it would be of no use preachin' to such a double-dyed villain as Rushin' River."

"That is one of the things," returned the preacher, "that you do not quite understand, Big Tim, for it was to such men as he that our Saviour came. Indeed, I have returned to this part of the country for the very purpose of visiting the Blackfoot chief in company with Whitewing."

"Both you and Whitewing will be scalped if you do," said the young hunter almost sternly.

"I trust not," returned the preacher; "and we hope to induce your father to go with us."

"Then daddy will be scalped too," said Big Tim--"an' so will I, for I'm bound to keep daddy company."

"It is to be hoped your gloomy expectations will not be realised," returned the preacher. "But tell me, where is your father just now?"

"Out hunting, not far off," replied the youth, with an anxious look. "To say truth, I don't feel quite easy about him, for he's bin away longer than usual, or than there's any occasion for. If he doesn't return soon, I'll have to go an' sarch for him."

As the hunter spoke the hooting of an owl was distinctly heard outside. The preacher looked up inquiringly, for he was too well acquainted with the ways of Indians not to know that the cry was a signal from a biped without wings. He saw that Big Tim and his bride were both listening intently, with expressions of joyful expectation on their faces.

Again the cry was heard, much nearer than before.

"Whitewing!" exclaimed the hunter, leaping up and hastening to the door.

Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the pot on the fire.

Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men conversing in low tones. Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged Indian stood in the doorway. With an expression of profound sorrow, he gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt beside him and grasped his hand.

"My white father!" he said.

"Whitewing!" exclaimed the preacher; "I little expected that our meeting should be like this!"

"Is the preacher badly hurt?" asked the Indian in a low voice.

"It may be so; I cannot tell. My feelings lead me to--to doubt--I was going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear. `He doeth all things well.' If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is finished, I shall die."


CHAPTER EIGHT.


NETTING A GRIZZLY BEAR.

As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have been no mystery at all in Little Tim's prolonged absence from his fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at latest.

Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the memory of his oldest friend been known to break it. Thus it came to pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then anxious. The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have just related, prevented the son from going out in