At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned Unaco as their chief.
It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous “prospector” would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery.
It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the Indian village.
“It seems to me, Paul,” remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, “that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men.”
“That is true,” replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. “Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place.”
“Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say,” suggested Fred.
“They will certainly attempt it” returned Paul, “but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi’ much resolution, an’ they’re never heartily united.”
“What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?”
“The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years,” answered Bevan, with a frown.
“Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?”
“The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I’m half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I’ve promised my little gal that I won’t kill him ’cept in self-defence, an’ of course if I don’t kill him he’s pretty sure to kill me.”
“Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?”
“No—she don’t.”
As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it.
“So you think Unaco may be depended on?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.
“Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin’s. The civilised people an’ the Redskins ain’t so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of ’em love an’ hate pretty stiffly, an’ they are both able to feel an’ show gratitude as well as the reverse—also, they’re pretty equal in the matter of revenge.”
“But don’t we find,” said Fred, “that among Christians revenge is pretty much held in check?”
“Among Christians—ay,” replied Bevan; “but white men ain’t always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it’s six o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other. Moreover, when the missionaries git among the Redskins, some of ’em turns Christians an’ some hypocrites—just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o’ Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don’t know; but from what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I’m sartin sure that he’s a good man and true, an’ for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he’d give me his life if need be.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson’s Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker,” said Fred.
“Ha! that’s because you don’t know him,” returned Bevan. “If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he’d have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he’s sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can.”
“But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton,” said Fred.
“No doubt,” returned Paul; “but haven’t we got him on Tolly’s pony to-day? and isn’t that a sign he’s better? An’ would you have me risk Betty fallin’ Into the hands o’ Buxley?”
Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was.
“Besides,” he went on, “it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o’ Injins, an’ we may chance to fall in wi’ gold, who knows? An’ when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin’ us, we shall have the help o’ the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good ’un an’ their wigwams are in danger.”
“It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it.”
As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,—which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,—and waited till her father overtook her.
“Is it not like paradise, father?”
“Not havin’ been to paradise, dear, I can’t exactly say,” returned her matter-of-fact sire.
“Oh, I say, ain’t it splendatious!” said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty’s idea in somewhat different phraseology; “just look at the lake—like a lookin’-glass, with every wigwam pictur’d upside down, so clear that a feller can’t well say which is which. An’ the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what’s that?”
The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head.
“Poor, poor creature!” exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.
“Not a bad supper for somebody,” remarked her practical father.
As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared.
He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man—at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian.
“He’s a trapper,” exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance.
“Ay, he looks like one o’ these wanderin’ chaps,” said Bevan, “that seem to be fond of a life o’ solitude in the wilderness. I’ve knowed a few of ’em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin’ when their blood’s up; though I have met wi’ one or two that desarved an easier life, an’ more o’ this world’s goods. But most of ’em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an’ on’y come down to the settlements when they run out o’ powder an’ lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is—yes! I do believe it’s Mahoghany Drake himself!”
Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him.
“His name is a strange one,” remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached.
“Drake is his right name,” explained Bevan, “an’ Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him ’cause he’s so much tanned wi’ the sun. He’s one o’ the right sort, let me tell ye. None o’ your boastin’, bustin’ critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin’ man, as is ready to tackle any subject a’most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it’s time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi’ man or beast. Ain’t he friendly wi’ little Tolly Trevor? He’ll shake his arm out o’ the socket if he don’t take care. I’ll have to go to the rescue.”
In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper’s hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends.
“Glad to see you, gentlemen,” he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted.
“Well, Drake,” said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, “all right at the camp down there?”
“All well,” he replied, “and the Leaping Buck quite recovered.”
He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco’s little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before.
“No sign o’ gold-seekers yet?” asked Paul.
“None—’cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin’. Sartinly they found nothin’, an’ went away disgusted.”
The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he............