University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

“There's that rascally Pete come to play with my Pete again,”
said Joe, gazing through a loop-hole out on the moon-lit lawn.
“The rascal bit me again, Sneak, as I came past the cave—and yet
Mr. Glenn wo'nt let me kill him.”

“If he bit you in the day time, Joe,” said Sneak, who stood at
Joe's side, “maybe it wer'nt a dream.”

“A dream! I never dream, Sneak, and you know it.”

“How do I know it? I know you snore like the dickens.”

“I don't believe that, Sneak; if I was to snore like the dickens
it'd wake me up.”

“It wakes me up, and I'm getting tired of it. But whar was
you when the bantim dog, as Mr. Glenn calls him, bit you?”

“Phantom—bantain's a chicken. I was passing by the cave.
It was when I was coming home.”

“Yes, and I seed you—and I seen more'n you think. You was
galivantin Miss Biddy Rafferty. You need'nt deny it, for I watched
out in the prairie, too.”

“You did? But you couldn't. How the mischief could you
see me there?”

“I seed you with the tolescope, from the tower. Don't lie out
of it.”

“And so you've been watching me. Well, I did'nt tell you my
project, any how.”

“Ho! That's it, hey! But dod rot it, Joe, I've been havin' some
thoughts of her myself. You ought to've told me at the start, and
then we would'nt've interfered with each other.”

“Sneak,” said Joe, “we've got to fight, we've got to fight a duel
till one's dead—I see it.”

“No you don't see it. Dod—I wouldn't fight a duel for any Irish
gal in creation.”

“You give her up, then, do you?”

“I hav'nt said it. Do you like her, Joe?”

“Like her? Of course. Who else is here I can like?”

“Nobody but the darkies, and they're wus than squaws. And
I'm not sartin I like the Irish gal better than the squaws. If they
was all like La-u-na, I'd be dead in love in a minit, the fust time I
seed 'em.”

“Why don't you like Biddy, Sneak?”

“Why, she calls me Mr. Snake.”

“She does? I know she hates Snakes. But, Sneak she
don't mean the snakes that bite, it's only her Irish way of pronunciation.
She calls me Mr. Back, and I don't mind it.”

“I know all about that—but dod rot it, who would like to have
a wife who was always calling him Mr. Snake? I could'nt stand
it, no how.”

Sneak then turned abruptly and strode briskly towards the opposite
loop-holes.

“You'll give her up to me, then?” said Joe, as they met
again.

“I hav'nt got her to give her. Dod rot the gal! Let her rip!
Now about the Indgens. I want to fight—I'm greedy as a snarvilerous
catamount for it—I'm aching for a brush—and I shall die
of a broken heart if nothing turns up to stir my blood.”

“Hang it, Sneak,” said Joe, “I should think being in love would
stir up the blood of any body.”

“Love! But the Indgens. Charley says you got frightened.”

“Charley, a little boy! But, Sneak, Biddy is a right pretty girl.
She's nineteen, which aint too young.”

“He said you looked like deer's taller, which aint yaller, like
beef's.”

“And she's the right size—as tall as La-u-na, and white as Mrs.
Mary.”

“And you fell flat on your face, and was so frightened you
could'nt speak.”

“That's a lie, Sneak. I would'nt speak, because I did'nt want
the Indians to hear my voice. Then she's straight in the back,
and has a round, beautiful neck.”

“And Mr. Glenn says you got lame.”

“That was a lie I told him, Sneak, because I did'nt want to
leave Biddy. She has splendid arms, bulging and firm as Dick's
legs above the knee. It's true she's got red hair—”

“I despise red hair,” said Sneak, turning away and rushing towards
the other side of the enclosure.

“You've got red hair yourself,” cried Joe, after him.

When they met again, not a word was spoken by either, and they
pursued their several ways with becoming industry, until Joe paused
again and looked out at the little dogs, who never ceased to gambol
in the moon-light.

“Joe,” said Sneak, laying his hand heavily on his shoulder,
“little Jule said you wanted to fight an old Indgen a fist fight.
The very thoughts of sich a thing would feel disgraceful to
me.”

“Sneak,” said Joe, turning round suddenly, “who do you think
it was?”

“How could I tell this fur? I saw you moving your arms, but
I could'nt see he was a old man.”

“Sneak, has all the hair come back the Indians pulled off of
your head when they catched us bee-hunting in Missouri, a long
time ago?”

“No, and never will, for the biggest of the rascals stripped off
some skin with it. Look here.”

He took off his cap and bowed his head so that Joe could see a
bald spot on the top of it.

“Well, Sneak, screw your anger up to the sticking point; the
old Indian I wanted to whip is the very one who pulled our
hair.”

“Dod rot him! Are you sartin?

“Yes, for he confessed it.”

“Has he got any hair?”

“A scalp-lock.”

“I must have his sculp.”

“Aint he too old?”

“Maybe he is—but maybe he's got a son. I'll make him
tell.”

“Sneak,” said Joe, in a sort of whisper, “that old rascal might
be snatched this very night. They're going into the cave with
pine knot torches, to leave dried meat and hard bread for the little
brown dog, who must be the White Spirit they worship.”

“That's not so, Joe; the brown dog aint a white spirit. He's
only a brown dog. I let him lick my hand once, and his tongue's
warm. He's no more a white spirit nor I.”

“Perhaps there's a white one in the cave, Sneak; any how, they
're going there to-night—and the old hair-pulling rascal among the
rest. He's a priest or prophet, now, since he s done all the mischief
he could. I was going to say, I would walk your rounds as
well as mine, while you sneaked out and snatched the old fellow.”

“Sneak's my name, but it's not my natur, Joe,” said Sneak. “I
don't like to break rules—but I'd like, above all things, to have the
old feller's sculp-lock. I'd like to have a fair fight with a Indgen
of my own age and size—but a tussel with a old one would'nt do
me any honor. You was going to fight him in the prairie—and
now why don't you go sneaking after him, yourself? I did'nt cry
and complain, and beg, when he tore my hair out, like you.”

“Me! I go sneaking after the Indians in the dark! I'd scorn it.
But, Sneak, the dog nipped me again, and would be sure to bark at
me. Now, he licked your hand, and he would'nt give the alarm if
you was to go.”

“I won't go—that's enough. It's agin my principles—and I
won't dirty my hands with a old Indgen, when I know we'll soon
have young ones to fight.”

“Do you know that, Sneak?” asked Joe, very earnestly.

“Yes, I know it. I got up in the tower when Mr. Glenn and
Mr. William, who used to be called the Young Eagle when he was
a chief among the Osages, galloped out in the prairie with the
presents, and way over to the southerd I saw a spy of the Apaches

watching 'em. He was dodging about in the scrubby oaks,
and shaking his fist.”

“What for?” asked Joe.

“What for! Do you think the Apaches are goin' to allow us to
gin presents to the Camanches, and not to them?”

“Can't we give some to them, too?”

“But they'll be mad because we gin 'em to the others fust. I
know Indgen keracter by heart. We're going to have fine times,
and plenty of fighting, Joe.”

“I'm glad of one thing,” said Joe, after a long pause; “they
hav'nt got many guns.”

“That'no advantage of our'n,” said Sneak; “they'll shoot us
without making any noise, and we'll never know who done it.”

“Blast the Indians!” said Joe. “I wish they'd attend to their
own business, and let us alone.”

“'Why, you dunce, it's their business not to let us alone; and it's
our consarn to see they don't git the upper hand of us.”

Joe turned and resumed his march, and walked with so much
briskness, that he reached the opposite loop-holes several paces in
advance of Sneak.

“What's thar, Joe?” asked Sneak, coming up behind him.

Joe's response was a violent spring backwards, and the force was
so great, and Sneak was taken so unexpectedly, that he was prostrated
on his back, Joe falling with him, while the guns of both
rattled on the ground.

“Dod rot it!” said Sneak, with difficulty, the breath almost
knocked out of him.

“Hush! hist!” said Joe, turning over and whispering in his
ear.

“What's thar?” repeated Sneak.

“Indians!”

“Indgens! It's the friendly Camaches, I guess.”

“No,” said Joe, continuing to whisper.

“No? Dod rot it, then, what are we laying here for? Git off of
me.”

“Stop, Sneak,” said Joe, “let me get my gun.”

They grasped up their guns silently. Joe ran the muzzle of his
musket through the loop-hole, but hesitated to bring his face up to
the stock.

“You've knocked my flint out,” said Sneak. “Here it is,” he
continued, the next moment, finding it easily in the moonlight, and
proceeding to adjust it. “Do you spy any of 'em now?” he asked,
as he screwed in the flint.

“No,” said Joe, “not now,” for he had not looked out since his
tumble.

“Joe,” continued Sneak, “if it's a false alarm, I'll knock you
down for knockin' me down. Why don't you look out? What're
you standin' thar for in that way, with your face to one side? It's
no time now to be playing your cowardly pranks. If you're a coward
in earnest, you need'nt be pretending in fun. When it comes
to knockin a man down in fun, it's no sport. I don't believe you
need any Indgen.”

“Hush, Sneak, don't speak so loud—I'll swear to it.”

“Let me look,” said Sneak, peering through the hole over the
barrel of Joe's gun. “Yonder is a Indgen—but maybe the snarvilerous
savage is a Camanche.”

“How far is he off?” asked Joe.

“Near a quarter mile.”

“He was almost up to the picket when I saw him.”

“That's nothing; he mought've been agin the slabs there, and
he's had time enough to be a half mile off now. He's standing
still, and I can't see if he's a Camanche or a Apache.”

“Shoot at him, Sneak,” said Joe.

“You be dot rot! You want me to lose my gun for breaking
the law.”

“No I don't, Sneak, upon my honor. We can shoot our enemies.”

“But if it's a Camanche, he's no enemy.”

“I'll swear he's no friend, if it's the one I saw. I'll swear he
raised his bow and shot at my eye.”

“He did? But may be he had no arrow, and was jest frightenen
you.”

“Now, Sneak, how could he tell me from you?”

“That's a fact; and he'd no business to be creepin' up to the
palisade and making sech unfriendly motions. Maybe he was waitin'
to ketch us off our guard.”

“He was,” said Joe, “and who can tell if he has'nt been shootin'
at our backs?”

“We kin tell he has'nt hit 'em,” said Sneak. “I won't shoot,
Joe, till I'm better convinced. If you had'nt sworn to it, I might
have thought you was'nt deceived. But, dod rot me, if I had
seen him shoot a arrow at my eye—mind me—if I had seen it
with my own eyes—I'd gin him a blizzard, if I died for it the next
minit.”

“Then, without swearing to it, Sneak, I'll take my—I mean, as
I hope to be saved, he shot his bow at me.”

“Then he's your enemy—and you can do jest as you please.”

“Why, Sneak, I heard the arrow hit right close to the hole.”

“You did? Then clar the way, and let me see.”

Sneak, without removing Joe's gun from the orifice through
which it protruded, leaned forward and saw distinctly an arrow imbedded
in the wood, not more than two inches from the loop-hole;
and silently he drew Joe's attention to it.

“Git out of the way, now,” said he, in a low and determined
voice; “that's enough—the arrow'll clar us—take your shot gun
away.”

“Stop, Sneak,” said he, “let me see if I'm wounded.”

“You're a fool! Wounded, and not know it.”

“I see it,” said Joe; “it's a flint head, and it's stuck deep in
the wood. Oh, goodness! if it had hit me in the eye.”

“Git out o' my way,” said Sneak, endeavoring to thrust Joe
from the loop-hole. Joe was not unwilling to get out of the way;
but in the hasty handling of his musket, it was discharged, and
flew back some fifteen feet, without striking either of the sentinels.

The explosion was tremendous, and the reverberations echoed
and re-echoed throughout the startled valley. The wolves in the

distance ceased to howl—the katy-did and the whippoorwill were
hushed—and Pete himself, abandoning his playfellow without,
came running up to Joe in amazement.

“He's gone, anyhow,” said Sneak, looking out.

“Maybe I've killed him,” said Joe.

“You be dot rot!” said Sneak, contemptuously.

“I suppose you're mad because I would'nt let you shoot first,”
said Joe, taking up his gun and blowing a long column of smoke
through the touch hole. “And you'll be saying it was accident,
if I killed him.”

“Now, see here, Joe,” said Sneak, turning to his companion,
“are you going to lie about it, and say you done that on purpose?”

“Done what?”

“Killed that snarvilerous savage.”

“Is he dead?”

“He's laying down jest where he stood—and it's likely he's
dead.”

“Tiderei—tidereo—tiderum!” sang Joe, dancing about on the
short grass, and kissing his musket when he stopped to re-charge
it. “And it did'nt kick me a bit, Sneak. You may call it accident,
if you like—but it'll be hard to make 'em believe all my
great feats are accidents.”

“And was it not an accident?” asked Glenn, who came up, followed
closely by William.

“No, sirree,” said Joe.

“Then give me your gun, sir. I see that further lenity will not
answer.”

“You may take my gun, Mr. Glenn,” said Joe, “but I hav'nt
done anything wrong.”

“Explain, Sneak,” said Glenn.

“Give him his tarnation gun,” said Sneak.

“Take it, Joe,” said Glenn, understanding Sneak's meaning.

“It's all right,” said Joe, in reply to William's interrogating
looks. “See here,” he continued, pointing through the loop-hole
at the arrow sticking in the palisade.

William thrust his arm through and extracted the arrow.

“It is an Apache arrow,” said he, “and the feather is from a
crow's wing.”

“True,” said Glenn; “this is a declaration of war.”

“Aint it war itself?” asked Joe. “He came near hitting me in
the eye—and then I peppered him.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I rather guess I did. That looks mightily like a dead Indian
laying out yonder.”

“Is it so, Sneak?”

“Look and see,” replied Sneak, pointing in the direction where
the object lay. “It's too far for any mortal to hit any body 'cept
by chance—but sometimes a man's easy to kill, if a stray shot
strikes him in a tender place.”

“We'll know now,” said William, “for I see Red Eagle coming
with a white flag on his bow.”

The chief, attracted by the astounding report, had sought to
learn the occasion of it—and when William saw him, he was approaching
the prostrate object supposed to be the Indian. He
stooped down over it, and remained long in that position.

Glenn and William left the enclosure and joined the chief without
delay.

“Is he an Apache?” asked William, when near enough to ascertain
it was truly an Indian.

“Yes,” said Red Eagle, in his own dialect. “He has been following
me for many days, and the presents you gave us, which he
must have seen, maddened him. There will be war. The White
Spirit fears it, and he cannot control our young men when the hunting
season is over. But it may not be for several moons—at least
in this valley. Do not venture far away from the valley. I will
always be near. If you want me send to the mountain. The
forest is neutral, and it is the boundary line between my people and
the Apaches. Take this man into your enclosure and bury him
quietly, and it may be some weeks before his people will know who
killed him. Farewell! I go to the mountain. But Red Eagle is
the friend of the pale face.”

Having uttered these words, the great chief departed towards
the cave.

Soon after Sneak and Joe were beckoned to, and came out and
aided in conveying the dead Indian within the palisades.

“Let me see where I hit him,” said Joe.

“At what point did you aim?” asked William.

“Answer that,” said Sneak.

“At the bulk,” said Joe. “My gun scatters at that distance—
but it shoots mighty strong. Here's the hole, right by his eye.”

It was true—and the shot had penetrated the brain. It was the
only wound found on him.

“Ketch hold,” said Sneak, seeing Joe's reluctance.

“Mr. Glenn,” said Joe, “it makes me sick to touch dead
people.”

“Then you ought'nt to kill 'em,” said Sneak. “But this is a
light one,” he continued, “like unto his buck, and I'm not afeard
to handle him. Git out of my way.”

“Saying this, he threw the body over his shoulder, and set off in
a brisk walk towards the palisade.

“What're you doing, Sneak?” cried Joe, following, and seeing
Sneak feeling the contents of the savage's pouch. “Remember,
we are to share even.”

“Who lost a knife?” asked Sneak, when he deposited his burden
behind the stable where it was to be buried.

“I,” said Joe; “I lost mine a week ago. That's it—where did
you find it, Sneak?”

“In the Indgen's pouch.”

“Then h's been in here, for I lost it here.”

“Sartin! The snarvilerous dog's been every whar.”

“Good gracious! And he might have shot me from the inside,”
said Joe.

“Get the spades, Joe,” said Sneak. “I reckon you can dig.
Make haste—Mr. Glenn and Mr. William will watch till we're
done.”

“What's that?” asked Joe, returning with the spades, and seeing
Sneak taking something else out of the Indian's pouch.

“I don't know, Joe. It looks like a rock on one side, and it's
like glass on the other. It's mighty bright. I'll show it to Mr.
Glenn.”

It proved to be a diamond of great value. The tomahawk,
knife, bow and arrows, &c., were divided as equally as possible between
the two—the body was buried, and the sod replaced over it—
and then, with injunctions to Sneak and Joe, to say as little as
possible about the occurrence, Glenn and William returned to their
couches.