THE RED WIZARD; OR, THE CAVE CAPTIVE.

CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG SQUAW.

"Ef yer strike that gal, by ther heavings erbove I'll send er bullet through yer skull or bury my knife in yer heart," and the speaker's demeanor told that the words were not idle ones.

"You are uncommonly tender of a squaw!" was the sneering reply, though the man drew back and restored the hatchet he had drawn to his belt.

"Am I?" and his black eyes flashed fire.

"Yes, for I have heard that you trappers and scouts make it a point to kill every Indian you come across."

"It may be the case with some, but it hain't my way, man. When it comes ter fightin' I always try ter do my share of ther killin', but murder in cold blood ain't in my line. No, sir! An' what's more, no man ain't er goin' ter do it while I am erround, without he calkerlates ter fight with Wash Lawton."

"Lawton is right and you wrong, Parsons," said a third man, breaking in upon the conversation. "The squaw has done us no injury, and the wholesale butchery that so many appear to delight in, is not only against reason but the most common humanity."

"Yes, I know I'm right," answered the confident scout. "Ef it war er spy now, and thar war er party of Injuns out-lyin' eround, ther case would be different. But this am er gal, and er young and pooty one fer her tribe, and I hain't goin' ter see her erbused, nohow."

"And I am on your side," chimed in the physician.

"You'll see what will come of it," growled Parsons, as he turned sulkily away. "Even if it is nothing but a girl, she has eyes and ears and feet, and can carry the news far. You might just as well spare a rattlesnake because it was little. They all have poison."

"Wal," returned the unabashed scout, "I never knew any harm ter come by doin' er good action even ter er Injun. And, let me tell yer one thing, mister; those who are ther most bloody-minded always come ter thar worst and most sudden end."

"And now," continued the doctor, as Parsons disappeared, "suppose you talk to the girl and tell her she shall not be injured. I presume you understand the lingo?"

"Thar isn't one between heah and ther mountings that I hain't had somethin' ter do with, fust or last. Ther gal am er Sioux."

"How can you tell that?"

"Jest as easerly as kin be," and he turned to and began addressing her in her native tongue.

The little train of emigrants had been about camping for the night in a little belt of timber by the side of a river when George Parsons had come suddenly upon a young squaw lying, ambushed as he presumed, in a thicket, and the girl would have been brained had not the scout interposed.

When spoken to in her mother tongue, by the scout, she arose and conversed freely, and for the first time the physician saw one with a red skin that had some claims to beauty; for her form was straight, her eyes soft in expression, though fire was hidden in them, her hair long but finer than the generality, and of intense blackness, her features regular and the mouth small and lips thin, her complexion a light olive. To add to all, she was neatly dressed.

Her story, as told to the scout and interpreted by him, was a simple one. Traveling alone from one village to another, her pony had fallen and escaped from her, and after following the trail until night was at hand, she was preparing to camp when she was surprised.

"Ask her if she isn't hurt," suggested the doctor; "it strikes me that she is in pain and trying to conceal it."

The scout did so, and for answer the squaw let her blanket slip from one shoulder.

"Great heaven!" shouted the doctor; "arm broken and no fuss made about it!"

He drew near and was about to lay his hand upon the injured limb, but the squaw drew back, and, with her remaining hand touched her knife in a significant manner.

"He is a medicine," explained the scout.

In an instant the girl became calm and submitted to the manipulations of the physician. The fractured member was set and bandaged in the most approved fashion. She evidently experienced great relief, and though she could not thank the doctor with her tongue, she did with her eyes in a very forcible manner.

"Now tell her," continued the doctor, "that she will have to keep quiet. I have known slighter fractures result dangerously—inflammation set in, and all that sort of thing. And tell her, too, that you and I will protect her and see that she has a comfortable place to sleep, and something to eat, and that she shall ride with us as far as she pleases."

The information was duly given, and received with unconcealed pleasure, though with little of demonstration, save the simple words:

"Washtado Chemockomaun."

"And that is?" asked the doctor of the scout.

"Good white-man."

"Well, it is something to receive praise from one of her race. And now, Wash, you take care of her. I will see her again in the morning and try to have her comfortable before she leaves us. I never saw one so patient before under suffering in all my practice."

"It is thar nature. But I want to see ther leetle blue-eyed gal in ther camp that—"

"Hush! What noise was that?"

It proved that some of the men who had been scouting about had caught a pony and brought him in. It was the squaw's own beast. Wash, at her request, saw that he was fastened at a little distance and properly fed. Then he turned his attention again to its mistress.

She followed him, partook thankfully of food, and though she declined to accept of his offer to sleep in one of the wagons, she crept beneath, did not refuse an extra blanket, and when he last looked at her she was apparently enjoying a healthy slumber.

But, how long she remained no one could say. Just before dawn there was an alarm of Indians, and when matters again became quiet they looked and found that both she and her pony had disappeared.

"It am ther nature of ther beast," said the scout. "But she will not ferget our kindness, doctor, and ef ever she kin do us er good turn yer kin safely bet yer life that she will."

"And bring the whole tribe down upon us," suggested George Parsons.

"Then mind yer hain't ther fust ter lose yer scalp," rejoined the scout.

The little caravan started again and journeyed until the western sun warned them to prepare for the night. This took place in nearly the center of a considerable prairie, with nothing worthy of the name of timber in sight. It was then noticed that Parsons—who had ridden ahead during the afternoon—had not returned, and it was suggested by some that he might have been captured by the Indians.

"I don't think it likely," replied the scout, "fer I hain't seen no signs. When er man starts on er huntin'-trail he never kin tell whar the end will be. But all we've got to do am ter keep er sharp look-out."

Midnight came and the missing man had not returned. But their own fate was on trial, and in what followed the missing man was forgotten.

CHAPTER II.

THE SUDDEN AWAKENING.

"Listen to me, Olive, and believe that I feel very deeply the words my tongue utters. You have become very dear to me—dearer than any thing else of this world—and I love you, Olive."

The girl glanced swiftly up from under her long lashes, then dropped her eyes again and her face was crimsoned with blushes, and the little hand he had obtained and was holding firmly, though tenderly, trembled fitfully, and nothing save a sigh escaped her lips.

"Olive," he continued, drawing still nearer to her, "it can not be that I am mistaken—that you look coldly upon me—that you take no pleasure in my society—can not be that you have not seen the true state of my heart? Tell me, am I disagreeable to you?"

"Oh! no, no," she murmured, in deep agitation.

"Then, darling—may I not call you so? Give me hope for the future. When we have finished our journey and the shores of the Pacific are reached, may I not believe you will become mine—be my wife?"

As actions speak even louder than words, so hers told him all he desired to know, and with the clouds of doubt drifted away from their souls, peace came, and love given and returned made them very happy.

Like all unmarried men who cross the plains, when there are pretty women in the company, the doctor, Ernest Mayo, soon found that he had a heart, and that its longings took but one direction.

He met Olive Myers for the first time—a girl slightly his junior, with a fair, pure face, laughing blue eyes, hair of the color of the ripe chestnut when just bursting from the shell, and a mouth that appeared to woo kisses. She was of good parentage (though now an orphan) and well educated.

She was drifting California-ward with an uncle and his family, and as Mayo was a gentleman, gladly accepted his company and protection.

More secure from molestation during the lonely night-watches than at any other time, she was accustomed to keep him company, and this night, when no one was within hearing, the intensity of their hearts strung to passion found vent for the first time.

With his arm around her waist, with one hand clasped in his, with her head resting on and showering down its wealth of chestnut curls upon his shoulder, they remained whispering such impassioned words as only lovers use until near the hour for changing the guard. Then the girl suddenly asked if Parsons had returned.

"No, dearest," he answered. "Do you take an interest in him?"

"I have no interest in any one but you," she answered, turning her blushing face to him and proffering her lips for a kiss. "But I fear him."

"Fear him? On what account?"

"Not for myself, but you, darling."

"I can not understand why, Olive."

"Because, he is envious—jealous!"

"Of me?"

"Yes. He once offered me his love and I refused it, and no later than yesterday he accused me of loving you."

"Which you denied, of course," he replied with a smile.

"I neither denied nor admitted. But I fear when he learns the truth, he will seek an opportunity to injure you," and the bare anticipation made her shudder.

"Don't tremble, little one," he answered, glad of an opportunity to again kiss the red lips. "No harm will come of it. He is a coward."

"But if he should. Oh! heaven!" and her beautiful eyes became misty with tears.

"He will not, be assured. Yet I can pardon him for something of his feelings, in being robbed of so great, so lovely a prize. Olive, darling, what would I have done without you?"

"And I without you?" she murmured in response, as she gave and returned his passionate caresses.

"Indians! Indians!"

They sprung apart, and the scout, who had been sleeping, as he was wont to say, 'with one eye open,' was instantly upon his feet and by their side. But "wolf," had been cried so often that he was disposed to doubt its truth, and springing upon a wagon he looked abroad. The prairie lay as dead and silent as when he last looked upon it, and he would have laughed at their fears had not something in the actions of the horses arrested his attention.

"Thar's something not exactly right thar," he muttered, "for stock don't ginerally make a fuss at this time of the night."

"What do you think can be the cause?" asked the doctor, who, with the girl he loved so tenderly, had drawn near.

"That's mighty hard to tell. It may be a pack of wolves have come between them and ther wind, or ef we war near the timber I should say a b'ar, but that couldn't well be ther case heah. Howsomever, I'm goin' to find out."

"Let me go with you," suggested the doctor.

"For the love of heaven, no!" whispered the distracted Olive, clinging to his arm. "If any thing were to happen to you, darling, I should die."

"The gal am right," replied the scout, sedately, though there was a merry twinkle in his eye. "I had better go alone. Hark!"

He dropped to the ground as suddenly as if felled by a blow, and remained for some time unstirring. His entire manner had changed; all of recklessness departed, and his movements became as cunning as those of a serpent. Still keeping his recumbent position he motioned the physician and said:

"You go and put out ther fires, and mind yer don't git in the light on 'em any more than you kin help."

"But I hear nothing but some wolves whining and howling."

"Yes, wolves. That am ther very name, fer that's what Sioux stands fer. Yes, wolves. Two-legged ones, whose bite ar' death!"

"You can not mean that those sounds are counterfeit?"

"It war well done—very well done—and would have deceived most any one, but, it can't me, by er long shot."

"For goodness sake tell me what you think."

"That ther red-skins am eround—am er callin' ter one enuther, and that they'll most proberbly be down upon ther wagons like er drove of bufflers, that's all!"

"Then do not venture out. Your rifle might be worth a hundred men."

"It kin do some good shootin', that am er fact. But I must try and gather in ther hosses. They am ther fust thing ther red devils will be arter. Ther hosses must be saved or we am lost. Hist! No more talkin'. Get ther gal inter ther most likely place fer safety, and then out with ther fire and see that every one am ready fer fight. Ef I shouldn't ever come back, good-by, and may ther Lord take a likin' ter yer and—and yer sweetheart, and say that Wash Lawton did his dooty, and died like er man."

He crawled swiftly away toward the horses, and it was time some controlling spirit was among them. A few had already broken loose and were running hither and thither, with heads and tails erect, eyes wild with terror, snorting and whistling, while the remainder were straining at their halters and threatening instant stampede.

"Thar am deviltry afoot," he whispered to himself, "and ef I can't save all ther horses I'll try and git one fer ther gal ther doctor loves. Ef ther watch had been good fer any thin' it wouldn't have happened, but it is too late now."

Indeed it was. At that very instant the terrible war-whoop of the Indians rung on every side, and almost countless dark forms skulked in every direction toward one common center. Then all further attempts at concealment were useless, and, with an answering shout, the scout arose and dashed forward, determined—as he had said—to secure at least one steed.

He reached the nearest, cut away the rope, struggled to get within mounting distance, was dragged along in the mad race, nearly trampled under foot, hurried into the tall grass, lifted from his feet and thrown headlong into an ambush of his enemies. Then he was instantly bound and left helpless until the battle was over.

The war-whoop had aroused those about the wagons to a sense of danger. They crowded together like sheep when encircled by enemies—evidently wanting a head. Like painted demons the villains crowded around the doomed emigrants, dancing, leaping, shouting and making the most frantic gestures, accompanied by a shower of arrows, that were answered by the sharp ringing of rifles.

Then the savages rushed forward en masse, and the battle became hand-to-hand. The massacre of men and helpless women and innocent children followed, while the air rung with shrieks for mercy and the groans of the dying as they were cut down, hewed by hatchets, pierced by arrows, crushed by clubs, scalped and hurled into the plundered and burning wagons, even before life was extinct.

An hour after, three wretched prisoners—all that survived of the band of emigrants—were dragged along with ropes around their necks—tied to the horses' tails of the exultant Indians—three only—Olive, the doctor and the scout.

A forced march brought them to a village of the Indians, and the two men were bound and thrown into a wigwam, while the girl was given into the care of the squaws.

What a sudden and bitter awakening from dreams of safety and of love!

CHAPTER III.

WHAT HATE WILL MAKE A MAN DO.

Stung to the quick by the refusal of his love, and still more so by the somewhat tyrannical conduct of the scout, seconded by the physician, George Parsons suddenly determined upon a bitter revenge.

A frontier born and bred man, he had from childhood been brought in association with the Indians, and knew their ways. Under pretense of hunting, he deserted from the little band to whom he had sworn fealty, and immediately sought for the enemies of the white man.

Fortune favored him. He came across an outlying spy—trailed his rifle, and turning the open palms of his hands toward him, advanced. It was a sort of freemason sign, well known to all the dwellers of the prairies, and it was not long before he and the Indian reached the main body of the savages, and he was soon seated in council with them.

But the Indians, crafty as treacherous, inquired deeply into the motives that made a man thus turn against his own people, and give them to the tomahawk and scalping-knife, or to torture.

"There is a girl among them whom I would make my wife," was the answer.

"Then why does the pale-face not take her?" questioned the chief.

"Because they are too many, and she will have nothing to do with me—loves somebody else."

"Why, then, is not the scalp of the lover at the belt of the brave?"

"That's just what I want, but I have never had a fair chance. Then, too, there is the guide of the party who has more than once insulted me—a trapper who has been here before—knows every foot of the ground, and I presume you know him."

"What sort of a man is the scout?"

Parsons described him minutely, and the Indians looked quickly from one to the other, and though there was no intimation given in words, yet it was evident that they both knew and feared him.

"How many of the pale-faces?"

Parsons enumerated them, and gave an inventory of the train and its means of defense.

"Will the pale-face fight?"

"No. I don't owe any of them a grudge, except as I have told you, and it wouldn't look well for me to be murdering my own people."

"Tell the red-man how the girl looks, that she may not fall by the arrow or the knife."

He did as requested, and found himself forced to endure a searching cross-questioning, for the Indians still feared treachery.

"If the tongue of the pale-face travels the short trail of truth," continued the chief, "he shall be as a brother to the red-man. But if his talk twists as the path of the serpent, then he shall die the same death of torture that he would give to his enemies."

"You will find every thing as I have said."

"Then it will be well. Let him give his weapons to the red-man."

"But I might want to use them."

"Until the braves return from the dogs of the pale-faces, he will be taken care of—be a prisoner."

This was very much more than he had bargained for. But resistance would have been useless, and with any thing but pleasant feelings he handed over rifle, knife, and hatchet.

"I will go with you and show you the way," he said, seeking to gain their favor.

"The red-man needs nothing but the stars to guide them at midnight—nothing but the smoke of the pale-man's fire to tell them where he lies hidden. Let the braves take him to the Medicine and tell him to keep him safe until they return. If his words are true he has nothing to fear. If not, he will learn what it is to be treacherous to the red-man. The Sioux are great warriors and they laugh at the traps of their enemies."

At a signal from the chief the arms of the white renegade were bound behind his back, and accompanied by half a dozen stalwart braves, he was led through and beyond the group of wigwams, out into the forest, and when he questioned where they were going, the only answer he could obtain was:

"To the Medicine."

A short journey and they reached a bluff by the side of a stream that found its way through a rocky cañon. A low, peculiar whistle called from a well-concealed opening the old trickster, who was supposed to hold communion with the moon and stars, the dead, and the great Manitou.

"The great Medicine of the Sioux," said the leader of the party, "will take care of the pale-face until the warriors return."

"It is well. Follow me."