NAT, THE TRAPPER AND INDIAN-FIGHTER.

BY PAUL J. PRESCOTT.

NEW YORK: BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by FRANK STARR & CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CHAPTER I. THE LEDGE.

Toward noon of a pleasant June day, 18—, a man, mounted on a powerful animal of the mustang breed, was riding slowly over the plain, some distance south-east of the great South Pass.

His appearance was striking. In hight he was rather more than six feet, his legs and arms being long and lank in the extreme. His eyes were small, gray and piercing, and remarkably deep-set; his face rather thin and cadaverous, the lower part being covered with a scanty growth of grizzled beard. Add to these not very handsome features a wide, though good-natured looking mouth, and a nose of extraordinary length, and he presented a startling, not to say ludicrous, appearance.

He was dressed in a suit of dun-colored deer-skin; and a close-fitting coon-skin cap, from which dangled the tail, covered his head. A long rifle, which evidently had seen considerable service, rested across the saddle-bow, and a large buckhorn-handled knife peeped from the folds of his hunting-shirt. A powder-horn slung at one side, and a small tomahawk stuck in his belt, completed his outfit.

Such was the appearance of Nathan Rogers, well known throughout that region as Wild Nat, trapper and Indian-fighter.

As he rode slowly along, his eyes bent on the ground, a superficial observer would have pronounced him in a deep reverie; but, from the suspicious glance which he frequently threw about him, it was evident that he was on the look-out for any danger that might be near.

“Gittin’ purty near noon,” he said, at last, speaking aloud, as was his habit when alone—“purty near noon, an’ I sw’ar I’m gittin’ e’ena’most famished. I shall be a mere skileton, purty shortly, ef I don’t git a leetle something in the provender line. Guess I’ll make fur thet clump of timber, an’ brile a slice of antelope.”

He raised himself in his stirrups, and swept the plain with swift, piercing glances.

“Nothin’ in sight,” he muttered, dropping to his seat. “Nary an Injun tew be seen. Gittin’ mighty quiet, lately; hain’t seen one of the pesky critters in a week. Git up, Rocky.”

He turned his horse toward a small clump of trees about half a mile distant, and rode rapidly forward. As he neared the grove, his former appearance of carelessness gave place to one of intense watchfulness. His keen gray eyes roved restlessly along the edge of the timber; his movements were slow and wary—every motion being instinct with a caution that long habit had made second nature. When at the edge of the grove, he stopped to listen, rising once more in his stirrups to look about him.

“Nary livin’ thing here ’cept me an’ the squirrels,” he muttered, after a protracted survey of the premises. “So, Rocky,” with a pat on his horse’s head, “we’ll stop, an’ have a bite.”

He slipped to the ground, unfastened the saddle-girth, and left the horse to graze, and then, placing his rifle close at hand, built a fire beside a fallen trunk, and proceeded to cut some slices of meat, a large piece of which hung at his saddle-bow, and place them to broil on the coals.

He had nearly finished his repast, when he suddenly sprung to his feet, grasped his rifle, and turned, in an attitude of defense, toward the south. His quick ear had caught the sound of danger.

He stood for some minutes, rifle in hand, peering into the green, tangled woods before him, and listening intently. No sound met his ear save the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead, and the occasional note of some familiar wood-bird.

“I don’t like this silence,” he muttered, glancing uneasily around. “I’m sure that I heard suthin’, an’ silence in sich cases, ain’t a good symptom.”

He shifted his rifle to the other hand, and still keeping his eyes fixed on the thicket before him, began moving that way, making a wide detour, however, to accomplish his purpose.

As he was creeping noiselessly forward, a slight sound met his ear, and turning his head, he saw, above the top of a huge log, the hideously-painted face of an Indian. Springing to his feet, he was about to make a more decided movement, when a horrible chorus of yells filled the air, and instantly, from every side, save directly behind him, sprung a score of savages.

“Gallinippers!” ejaculated the trapper, “here’s a scrimmage on hand.”

He instantly raised his rifle and discharged both barrels into the painted host that was rapidly rushing upon him, and then turning, darted away, intending to reach his steed and make his escape. On reaching the spot, closely followed by his pursuers, he discovered that his horse was in the hands of a number of Indians, who had reached the place under cover of the timber.

He was now completely surrounded by the savages, who were pressing forward, eager to capture him. To the right, left and rear were the woods; before him the plain; on every side, the Indians. With a comprehensive glance at the case, the trapper came to a halt, turned toward the nearest of his foes, and swinging his rifle over his head, with a yell that would have shamed a Comanche warrior’s best effort, dashed forward. With one blow he felled a gigantic brave who stood before him; another, and a second went down; and then, as the panic-stricken rank broke, leaving a slight opening, he sprung through and darted away to the right, closely followed by the Indians, yelling at the top of their voices.

On he ran, over fallen trees and under branches, and close behind came his pursuers, straining every nerve to overtake him. So close were they, that the fleeing hunter had no opportunity to look for danger ahead, and before he was aware he ran directly into a small band of the enemy, who were evidently lying in ambush.

With shouts of triumph, the Indians gathered round, taunting him with his coming fate.

“The Long-knife shall die,” shouted a pompous chief, with 12 a towering head-dress of eagle-feathers. “He will kill no more braves.”

“That remains tew be seen, ole smut-face,” retorted the trapper. “I ’spect ter hev the pleasure of scalpin’ ye yit.”

The Indian glared at him with a look of ferocity and rage, which was intensified by the cool, mocking smile with which the prisoner regarded him.

“What yer goin’ ter do with me?” asked Wild Nat, as he saw them preparing to move.

“Long-knife will see. He shall die,” was the reply.

He was placed on a horse, his hands tied behind him, his feet lashed together, and surrounded by his captors on every side. The Indians then began moving away to the west.

“Blast it all,” growled the trapper to himself, “this is a purty fix tew be in. I’d like tew know how in thunder they got so clus ’ithout my seein’ ’em. I know they wasn’t—hello! that explains it!”

The incensed trapper gazed about in bewilderment. Directly on the left was a narrow, swale-like hollow, which was completely concealed by the tall grass of the plain, until directly upon it.

“Thar’s whar ye skulked, is it, ole leather-chops?” he exclaimed. “Thought ye’s smart, didn’t yer? I’d like tew snatch ye all bald-headed.

“How in thunder did it happen that I never see that place afore?” he continued to himself. “I sw’ar, I thought I’d tramped over every inch of plain about here. No use in growlin’; but if I ever git away, I’ll bet they’ll wish they’d died when they war young!”

The Indians traveled steadily forward, and about the middle of the afternoon, reached a high cliff in the Rocky Mountains, at the base of which they halted, and began making some preparations that puzzled Wild Nat considerably. He was not long kept in doubt as to their intentions.

The cliff shot up perpendicularly, a distance of about ninety feet, facing the east. The whole face was smooth, without niche or seam, with the exception of one spot. This was a narrow, shelf-like ledge, about thirty feet from the top, some three yards in length and about one in breadth.

As the trapper was looking at the precipice, with which 13 he was quite familiar, the pompous chief before mentioned accosted him:

“Does Long-knife behold? The ledge shall be his grave! He will thirst, but there will be no water; he will hunger, but there will be no food. Below him, the birds will fly, the antelope will jump, and the buffalo graze, but it will be nothing to him. Long-knife will not be able to reach them!”

Wild Nat looked at him, at first puzzled; but, as the full meaning of his words broke upon him, his heart sunk. It would, indeed, be a fearful death!

But not to his captors would he show fear.

“Kalkerlate tew set me up thar, eh?” he inquired, in so cool a tone that the chief stared. “Be a splendid place to take a look at the country. Guess I’ll make a map on’t while I’m thar.”

“Long-knife sneers,” said the Indian. “He will soon see that the Wolf speaks truth.”

“How ye goin’ tew h’ist me up thar?” queried Wild Nat.

“The Wolf has means,” replied the chief, walking away.

The chiefs now gathered together and held a short council. At its close, the trapper was taken from his horse and placed upon the ground, where he was tied in such a manner as enabled him to stand upright. He was then taken by several Indians and half-dragged, half-driven, up the mountain to the brow of the cliff.

Here, amidst the uproarious and triumphant shouts of his captors, a stout rope of buffalo-hide was produced, and preparations made for lowering the prisoner to the ledge.

Wild Nat looked on with grim stoicism. Well he knew the uselessness of expecting mercy at their hands. For years he had been a scourge among them, and though several times a prisoner, he had always managed to make his escape. His hatred of the Indians was intense; his vengeance unfailing.

After an uproarious tumult, the Wolf stepped forward and tied the buffalo-skin rope about his own waist. His companions then lowered him to the ledge, where he unfastened the rope, and it was drawn up. The trapper was then taken up, his bonds tightened and the rope tied about him, and, amid a hideous yelling, was swung off the cliff.

He landed at last on the ledge where the Wolf stood waiting. He detached the rope, and once more it was drawn up. The trapper’s weapons were next lowered, and the Wolf placed the tomahawk and knife in the prisoner’s belt and leaned the rifle against the rock, regarding him, meanwhile, with a mocking smile.

“Long-knife has his weapons,” he said; “he can shoot the antelope beneath him.”

“Blast ye, who cares?” retorted Wild Nat. “Think yer’ll tanterlize me, I s’pose, leavin’ ’em here; but yer won’t.”

“The Long-knife has killed his last warrior,” continued the Indian, exultingly. “He will take no more scalps. Long-knife is conquered; his carcass will be food for the vultures, and his bones will bleach in the suns of a hundred years.”

He fastened the rope about his waist, the trapper looking on in silence, and mentally cursing his fate.

“Ef I war only loose, I’d topple ye over,” he muttered. “I’ll bet thar ain’t a bird livin’ thet would dirty his bill with ye, ef ye war dead forty times.”

The Wolf gave the signal, and was slowly drawn up. The Indians then went to the plain below, where, in full view of the trapper, they executed their war-dance, and exulted savagely for the space of an hour, at the end of which time they mounted their horses and rode away.

The trapper was alone.

He watched them as they gradually disappeared in the gathering gloom, and then looked at his narrow prison. What a place to meet death in! What a fearful death, to die of starvation and thirst! But the trapper had no weak spot in his nature and was not likely to give way to despair.

As soon as the Indians were fairly gone, he began trying to free himself. In vain he struggled and writhed; the ligatures were too securely fastened. Pausing, at last, from sheer exhaustion, he looked about for means to accomplish his purpose. His hands were tied behind him, so that the knife in his belt was wholly useless. As he speculated, his eye chanced to rest on a single slender edge of rock, projecting from the wall. To this he speedily wriggled himself, and though 15 from the extreme narrowness of the ledge, he was in danger of falling, he placed his hands against it and drew the bonds back and forth across it, until they snapped asunder. It required a great length of time to accomplish this, but Wild Nat had no lack of patience, and he persevered. His hands once free, it was only a moment’s work to cut the other bonds, and in a short time he stood upon the ledge free, at least to move as far as its narrow limits would permit.

But that availed him little, comparatively. In that vast wilderness there was scarcely a possibility of human aid, and he was powerless to help himself.

The narrow ledge was likely to prove his sepulcher.

CHAPTER II. A WILD CHASE.

The sun was just visible above the burnished peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and its slanting rays rested like a halo on the tops of the trees forming a pleasant grove near the Sweetwater river.

The river, meandering along between its verdant banks, shone and sparkled like burnished silver, and rippled and chattered to itself, as if it felt the exhilarating influence of the quiet breeze and pleasant scene.

In the edge of the grove above mentioned, an emigrant-train was preparing its night-camp. The scene was a merry and exciting one. Children ran laughing and shouting in every direction; groups of women chatted in cheerful voices around fires, or strolled in couples under the trees; men, in knots of two or three, laughed, jested, and told “yarns;” here a boy was training a dog, and yonder a woman perched on a wagon-tongue, with arms akimbo, and laughing, eager face, surrounded with young girls, whose sudden bursts of shrill mirth woke the slumbering echoes of the grove and river.

A little apart from the busy scene stood two men, whom we wish more particularly to introduce to the reader.

The first was an intelligent, manly-looking fellow of about twenty-three years. His cap covered a profusion of brown hair, brushed carelessly back from his forehead, a slight mustache covered his upper lip, and half-shaded his firm, frank mouth.

For the past few minutes, he had been intently watching a small moving speck away to the west, and now, turning his fine gray eyes upon his companion, he called his attention to the same.

The man turned about, and drawing his form to its full hight, took a sweeping view of the valley. As he stood thus, he presented a splendid picture of a free trapper.

Medium-sized, with square shoulders, straight as a young pine and as lithe, he was evidently a full match for any one. His fringed frock of untanned buck-skin was belted tightly about his waist, in which stuck a buckhorn-handled knife, and a small, handsomely-finished tomahawk. A powder-horn and a six-shooter hung at his side, and he carried a long rifle, that had evidently seen considerable service.

After a moment’s keen scrutiny, he turned to the young man, with a broad grin illuminating his rough features, and said:

“That’s a small herd of buffler. They’re comin’ this way, an’ we’ll have a few shots at ’em. Not much time tew be lost, either. Let’s tew horse!”

The word spread through camp like wildfire, and long before the stampeded herd came near, the men were mounted and ready for them. Hearing the unusual noise throughout the camp, a couple of girls came hurriedly from the edge of the grove, where they had been strolling around, with faces full of alarm and apprehension.

The tallest one, a pretty, slender maid, with dark eyes and floating black curls, whose name was Marion Verne, ran up to the old trapper before mentioned, and exclaimed:

“What is the matter, Vic? Have the Indians come?”

“Nary an Injun,” replied Vic Potter, springing into his saddle; “only a herd of buffler. We’re goin’ to have a few shots at ’em. Ready, Kent?”

The young man replied in the affirmative, and as the herd was yet some distance off, he walked his horse to 17 the trapper’s side, and stood talking with him and Marion Verne.

The herd came on grandly. It numbered only three or four hundred, and was passing to the right of the camp, at the distance of half a mile. As the first of the herd came opposite, Vic Potter gave the signal, and the half-dozen mounted men dashed toward them.

There was no evidence in the herd that they were seen or noticed until they were very close, when some agitation in the outskirts, and running to and fro, showed they were discovered.

The hunters rode steadily abreast until within about twenty-five yards of the herd, when they separated and broke into it.

Vic Potter selected a large cow, and brought her down at the first shot. Leaving her, he dashed after an old bull, which showed symptoms of fight, and charged his horse several times. He succeeded, after considerable trouble and several shots, in bringing him to the ground.

Meantime the herd had passed on, leaving an immense cloud of dust, and the hunters were preparing to cut up such of the game as they desired. Vic Potter tied his horse to the horns of the cow he had secured, and then looked around for his companions. All were near except Wayne Kent. The trapper raised himself and gazed earnestly down the valley.

Far away toward the south-east he descried a small, moving object. One whose eyes were less keen would never have seen it. The trapper shook his head at the sight.

“The boy’s chasin’ a buffler, an’ he’s lettin’ his excitement run away with his reason. Don’t he see thet the sun is down, an’ he’s plump tew miles from camp, an’ goin’ like mad? He’s a new hand on the plains, an’ don’t know nothin’ about Injun ways. Like as not they’ll gobble him up.”

Muttering away, the hunter continued to watch the fast-receding figure, until distance, and the fast-gathering dusk, hid it from view.

Then, after securing the choicest portions of the cow, he returned with the others to the camp.

“Where is Kent?” was the question that greeted them on their arrival.

“He’s off chasin’ a buffler, an’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll git inter 18 trouble, tew,” replied Potter, throwing down his load. It was now dark, and considerable anxiety was felt for the young man. Among the ones most interested was Marion Verne, though she said nothing, and was, to all appearances, indifferent as to whether Wayne Kent was there or in Nova Zembla. Such is the hypocrisy of the fair!

Meanwhile, the dashing young hunter was getting into trouble.

He had singled out a huge bull, on entering the chase, and fired several shots at him. But the animal seemed possessed of a charmed life, and led him a wild chase.

Excited by the sport, and eager to bring the noble animal down, he followed him until the rapidly-gathering darkness warned him to stop. Relinquishing his pursuit with reluctance, he pulled up his horse, and stopped to look about him.

To his utter dismay, he found himself completely out of sight of camp, and, as the sun was down, he was without a guide. He did not stop to consider long, as it was already so dark that objects were distinguishable only at a short distance, but headed his horse in the direction he supposed the camp to be, and pushed forward rapidly.

The night proved to be a dark, cloudy one, so that he was without the stars for a guide, and utterly at a loss. He wandered about, searching vainly for the welcome light of the emigrant camp-fires, until nearly morning, when, wearied with the unavailing search, he threw himself on the ground, and securing his horse to a tree near, soon fell asleep.