 | CHAPTER VII.
WE ARE MADE PRISONERS. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
WE ARE MADE PRISONERS.
A SUDDEN stillness succeeded these horrible yells, the
trampling of horses was no longer heard, and I knew that
we were completely surrounded by a large body of
Indians.
An awful sickening feeling came over me, as I contemplated
our probable doom. Death, speedy and bloody—
or, what was scarcely a less terrible alternative, a wretched
captivity. Poor Clara! what a fate for her! In that
fearful moment, could I have purchased her freedom and
safety with my life, I would freely have given it.
A thousand thoughts now crowded themselves upon me
at once—for in moments of extreme peril, the mind seems
to expand so as to grasp a hundred subjects at the same
time. I thought of home and the friends there, and what
painful affliction the mystery of my fate would cause them.
I thought of myself—young, just setting out in life, and
with every thing to make life desirable—doomed to hopeless
misery or death. I thought of Harley—of Viola—of
Clara—of her parents—her brother—her aunt—what all
these last must think and say of us. And all this, and
much more, in that space of time which is measured by two
vibrations of the pendulum of a clock! Surely, intellect is
Godlike! and possesses, though in a very limited degree,
the omnipresent attribute of Deity.
The yells of the savages had so terrified Clara as to
thought so far fortunate, that we had not betrayed ourselves
to them; and if, as I hoped, they knew not of our
presence within the thicket, there was a bare possibility we
might yet escape. I dared not communicate this to my
companion, even in a whisper—for I had often read of the
keenness of the Indian ear in catching and distinguishing
sounds—but I put my finger to her lips, as a sign that I
wished her to remain perfectly silent. She did so, whether
she understood my meaning or not.
Presently I heard a movement in the bushes; and directly
after, a deep, guttural voice, addressing some words
in an unknown tongue to the strange being within the hut.
The latter seemed to understand the Indian, for he replied,
apparently in the same language. I then heard him moving
about inside, as if collecting some of his things for a
sudden departure. In a few moments he quitted the hut,
and spoke some words to the Indian outside, when both
moved away together.
I now really began to entertain some hope that we
should be overlooked and left to ourselves—though I trembled
at the idea that our late host might betray us. I am
inclined to think, however, I did him injustice by this suspicion;
but, at all events, my horse, at this critical instant,
gave a loud snort; and my heart died within me, for I felt
that it was in vain to hope for concealment longer.
I now heard exclamations, as of surprise, among the
savages; and then something uttered in a commanding
tone, as by one invested with authority. Then the voice
of the Hermit, as I will term the owner of the hut by way
of convenience, called out to us:
“Ride out here, my friends, and surrender yourselves
prisoners. Resistance will not avail you, and to attempt
it will cost you your lives.”
“Alas! dear Clara, we are doomed,” I said.
“May God protect us!” she replied, in a low, sad tone,
which, greatly to my surprise, seemed in no degree tremulous.
We now rode out of the thicket upon the plain, and
were immediately surrounded by some eight or ten dismounted
Indians, among whom was the Hermit. The
latter came up to my side, and said:
“My friend, I am sorry for you—but it was no fault of
mine.”
“What will be done with us?” I inquired.
“Of that I know no more than yourself,” he answered.
“As you have made no resistance, I think your lives are
safe for the present.”
“What tribe is this?”
“The warriors were originally from various tribes; but
are now organized under one leader, and term themselves
Wepecoolahs—which, in English, signifies Forest-Rangers.
The name of their chief is Kenneloo, or Death-Arrow.”
“You are, then, no stranger to them?”
“Alas! no, we are too well acquainted.”
“Then since you know them, and can speak their language,
perhaps you can prevail upon the chief to release
us, or put us to ransom!” I rejoined, eagerly. “Oh! sir,
if you can and will do this, I will hold my life as yours to
dispose of.”
“I will do what I can,” he replied; “but count not too
much on my influence with this bloody chief, for I am a
prisoner myself.”
“How! you a prisoner?—you seem to be free.”
“I am not bound—for I have pledged my word not to
escape, and Kenneloo knows he can trust me—but still I
am none the less a prisoner.”
`And what do they intend to do with you?”
“They say I must go with them—but for what purpose
I have not yet been informed.”
While the Hermit and I were thus conversing, the group
of dismounted savages had been walking slowly around
Clara and myself, examining us, our horses and equipments.
They put their hands on the necks of our beasts,
and let them slide down their breasts; they felt of their
flanks, and then of us, and peered into our faces. Apparently
they were satisfied with the capture of what had
cost them nothing, for they gave several grunts of approval,
and then held a short consultation among themselves.
They then called the Hermit to their council; and
after an absence of a few minutes, he returned to me, and
said:
“I am desired by Kenneloo to inform you, that unless
you attempt to escape, your lives for the present are safe.
You will also be allowed for the present to retain your
horses, and will be sent off under an escort of four trusty
warriors.”
“Sent whither?” I inquired.
“I have not been informed—probably to the village of
the Wepecoolahs,” he replied.
“And what will become of the others, meantime?”
“Indians,” he answered, gravely, “never venture this
far into the territory of the whites, except for trade or
plunder; and you may draw your own conclusion as to the
purpose of the present party, when I inform you they
carry nothing but deadly weapons.”
“And go you with them, to aid them in their bloody
designs upon your race?”
“I go with them, an unwilling prisoner, sir,” he replied,
haughtily; “and I thank you not for your base suspicions.”
“I only meant to inquire if it were their intention to
put you to so severe a trial,” I hastened to rejoin, in a
your pardon! But did you state my proposition to the
chief, of putting us to ransom?”
“I did; but he will not do so for the present. Much
will depend upon the success of this expedition, whether or
not you ever regain your freedom.”
“And are there no terms on which he will set my companion
at liberty?”
The Hermit walked away to the chief, spoke aside with
him for a few moments, and returning, replied:
“No, she must go with you; and if you attempt to escape,
and succeed, her life will be sacrificed.”
“Alas! poor Clara! would to Heaven I could save you,
even with my life, from so dire a fate!” I said, taking her
hand, as we sat side by side on our horses.
“I would not accept liberty at any sacrifice to yourself,
Mr. Walton,” she replied, in a tone that betrayed deep
emotion. And then, after a brief pause, she added, with
what seemed an impulsive gush of feeling: “No, Henry
Walton—dear Henry—I would go with you even to the
grave.”
This language of endearment, expressive of the deepest
and purest affection, coming so unexpectedly from the lips
of Clara, made my heart beat wildly; and for a few moments
I hardly knew which emotion predominated—joy at
the avowal, or grief for the peculiar circumstances which
drew it forth. I was at once the happiest and the most
miserable of men: happy, in knowing that Clara truly
loved me—miserable, in remembering that we were both
captives to a barbarous foe.
“God bless you, dear Clara, for these sweet words!” I
hastened to reply; “and whatever may be my fate, they
shall mark a green spot on the waste of life; and I
will treasure them in my heart of hearts forever.”
At this moment the moon streamed her soft rays through
the broken clouds, and bathed us in a flood of silver light.
I caught at it as a favorable omen.
“Behold!” I cried; “light breaks in upon darkness,
and tranquility again reigns where so late the elements
waged terrific battle! The storm of adversity has fallen
upon us; but, I trust in God, it will pass, and that the sun
of prosperity will once more make glad our hearts, even as
you queen of night casts her mild radiance over a scene so
lately wrapt in awful gloom.”
As I said this in a low tone to Clara, an Indian rode in
between us, and another on the other side of me; when
both proceeded to fasten my arms in such a way that I
could make no other use of them than to hold the reins
and guide my beast. But I was thankful for even this
privilege, when I might have been put to so much severer
treatment; and which, in fact, I rather expected than
otherwise.
Having made my hands fast, they proceeded to search
my person, taking away my revolvers, my watch, money,
and such other articles as I chanced to have about me.
The watch, pistols, and money, seemed to afford them an
agreeable surprise; for they uttered grunts of delight;
and riding away a few paces, they dismounted, and collected
their companions around them, to the number of
more than fifty.
The moon now shining out bright and clear, I had a
fair view of the whole party, as one after the other they
busied themselves in handling the revolvers—whose numerous
barrels seemed to strike them as very curious—and
the watch, whose regular ticking caused them great
wonder and delight.
They were a villanous looking body of men—half-naked,
bedaubed with paint, their faces streaked black and
in the centre, which was adorned with the feather of some
wild bird—with bows in their hands, sheafs of arrows to
their backs, and tomahawks and scalping-knives in their
girdles; but notwithstanding their fierce, formidable, and
utterly disagreeable appearance—and notwithstanding
that I was their prisoner, whom death only might release
from captivity—I could scarcely avoid laughing at the
comical gravity they displayed over the watch, each apparently
attempting to be more wise and knowing than his
companions. One would take it, examine it attentively,
particularly its face, by the light of the moon, turn it over
and over, put it to his ear, and then, with the manner of
one who had made some important discovery, would point
out something that had struck him as peculiar, and
hand it to the next, with a self-satisfied air that was truly
ridiculous.
Thus it went from one to another—the revolvers following
next in the examination, and going the same round;
and when the last one of the party had given an opinion
of his own on the articles, the Hermit—who, with folded
arms, had been standing silently apart—was called up to
the group, and all seemed to turn to him, as to one unanimously
chosen umpire, to decide which was right.
This proceeding probably occupied some quarter of an
hour, which time I spent in conversing with Clara, in a
low tone. I was agreeably surprised to find one who had
been so timid at the bare thought of danger, so calm and
firm in the real moment of peril; and I called to mind
her words when speaking of such an event. Her face, as
I beheld it by the light of the moon, was very pale—the
lips seemed unusually compressed—and the eyes, those
soft, melting blue eyes, had a clear, resolute expression,
that bespoke a firmness of character far beyond what
was rather stern than timid—every feature was
composed—not a single member of the body appeared to
quiver—and I could not detect the slightest tremor in her
voice.
She spoke of our captivity as a sad event; but said
that our lives were in the hand of God—that in him she
put her trust—and that whatever might happen, she
prayed for resignation to say, “Thy will, O God! not
mine, be done!” She said her loss would be a very
severe blow to her family, and she feared that evil tongues
might start some scandalous tale of our being absent
together; but even of this—of home, and all connected
therewith—she spoke with a calmness, a lofty resignation,
that astonished me; and if I loved her before, as one
loves a tender object needing protection, I now mingled
with that love a certain feeling of admiration, which only
superior qualities can excite.
As soon as the Hermit had answered the questions propounded
to him, he and the chief advanced to my side.
The latter was a large, athletic Indian; but save a few
extra ornaments, in the way of feathers—if such things
indeed could be called ornaments—I could perceive
nothing to distinguish him from his fellows.
“Kenneloo,” said the Hermit, addressing me, “would
know how many watches you are willing to give for your
ransom, and that of your companion?”
“Ask him to name the number he will accept,” I replied,
eagerly.
The two held a brief conversation, when the Hermit
rejoined:
“He will take a hundred.”
“And I will give them,” was my answer.
Again the Hermit spoke with the chief; and then continued
to me:
“But how, when, and where, is he to obtain them?”
“I will deliver them at any place he may name, within
a reasonable distance, and within ten days from our reaching
Houston.”
This was translated to the chief, who only slightly understood
English; and he was in the act of making some
reply to the Hermit, when we were all startled by the report
of a pistol.
Suddenly there was a great commotion among the
Indians; and immediately some fifteen or twenty came
running toward us, uttering yells of rage.
Their object, as I soon learned, was to sacrifice Clara
and myself on the spot; but their bloody design was frustrated
by the chief, who promptly interposed, and inquired
into the cause of the disturbance.
It seems that in handling the revolvers, some one had
discovered the trigger of one, had pulled it down to its
place, and, bent on new discoveries, had pressed his finger
hard against it, by which means one of the barrels had instantly
been discharged, lodging a ball in the breast of
another, who chanced to be standing directly in front of
the muzzle. This had excited both consternation and rage;
and the latter feeling was directed against us, for having,
as they superstitiously believed, bewitched the weapon to
do them harm.
As I have said, the interposition of the chief prevented
the immediate retaliation, and gave the Hermit an opportunity
to explain to them that they, rather than we, were
in fault.
The result was, after a long discussion—during which the
Hermit in some degree succeeded in his efforts to pacify
them—that they agreed to relinquish present vengeance.
—the chief declaring that we should be held as prisoners,
to be finally disposed of according to future circumstances.
This being settled, we were immediately joined by our
guard—four stout, grim-looking fellows—while the others,
remounting by the chief's orders, dashed swiftly away,
taking the Hermit with them, to whom they assigned the
horse of the disabled warrior.
| CHAPTER VII.
WE ARE MADE PRISONERS. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west | |