shelter of some trees, where they remained until the Indian warriors were out of sight.
The next party they met with, however, were more difficult to manage, and, unfortunately, blood was shed on both sides before our travellers escaped.
It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war-party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the horizon. It chanced that the prairie at this place was almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal the horses. By dashing down the grassy wave into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting, Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave the word,—but at the same moment a shout from the Indians told that they were discovered.
“Look sharp, lads, throw down the packs on the highest point of the ridge,” cried Joe, undoing the lashings, seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to the top of the undulation with it; “we must keep them at arm’s length, boys—be alive. War-parties are not to be trusted.”
Dick and Henri seconded Joe’s efforts so ably, that in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded, the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a broken piece of ground, the horses picketted close beside them, and our three travellers peeping over the edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages—about thirty in number—came sweeping down towards them.
“I’ll try to git them to palaver,” said Joe Blunt, “but keep yer eye on ’em, Dick, an’ if they behave ill, shoot the horse o’ the leadin’ chief. I’ll throw up my left hand as a signal. Mind, lad, don’t hit human flesh till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don’t draw till I git back to ye.”
So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed, towards the Indians. In a few seconds he was close up with them, and in another moment was surrounded. At first the savages brandished their spears and rode round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and, drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what he was doing there.
Joe’s story was soon told; but instead of replying, they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant mischief.
“If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face, he will go back to his braves,” said Joe, passing suddenly between two of the warriors and taking a few steps towards the camp.
Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a hundred arrows, when he turned round and cried:—
“The Blackfeet must not advance a single step. The first that moves his horse shall die. The second that moves himself shall die.”
To this the Blackfoot chief replied scornfully, “The Pale-face talks with a big mouth. We do not believe his words. The Snakes are liars, we will make no peace with them.”
While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand; there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground.
The use of the rifle, as we have before hinted, was little known at this period among the Indians of the far west, and many had never heard the dreaded report before, although all were aware, from hearsay, of its fatal power. The fall of the chief’s horse, therefore, quite paralysed them for a few moments, and they had not recovered from their surprise when a second report was heard, a bullet whistled past, and a second horse fell. At the same moment there was a loud explosion in the camp of the Pale-faces, a white cloud enveloped it, and from the midst of this a loud shriek was heard, as Dick, Henri, and Crusoe bounded over the packs with frantic gestures.
At this the gaping savages wheeled their steeds round, the dismounted horsemen sprang on behind two of their comrades, and the whole band dashed away over the plains as if they were chased by evil spirits.
Meanwhile Joe hastened towards his comrades in a state of great anxiety, for he knew at once that one of the powder-horns must have been accidentally blown up.
“No damage done, boys, I hope?” he cried on coming up.
“Damage!” cried Henri, holding his hands tight over his face. “Oh! oui, great damage—moche damage, me two eyes be blowed out of dere holes.”
“Not quite so bad as that, I hope,” said Dick, who was very slightly singed, and forgot his own hurts in anxiety about his comrade. “Let me see?”
“My eye!” exclaimed Joe Blunt, while a broad grin overspread his countenance, “ye’ve not improved yer looks, Henri.”
This was true. The worthy hunter’s hair was singed to such an extent that his entire countenance presented the appearance of a universal frizzle. Fortunately the skin, although much blackened, was quite uninjured, a fact which, when he ascertained it beyond a doubt, afforded so much satisfaction to Henri, that he capered about shouting with delight, as if some piece of good fortune had befallen him.
The accident had happened in consequence of Henri having omitted to replace the stopper of his powder-horn, and when, in his anxiety for Joe, he fired at random amongst the Indians, despite Dick’s entreaties to wait, a spark communicated with the powder-horn and blew him up. Dick and Crusoe were only a little singed, but the former was not disposed to quarrel with an accident which had sent their enemies so promptly to the right-about.
This band followed them for some nights, in the hope of being able to steal their horses while they slept; but they were not brave enough to venture a second time within range of the death-dealing rifle.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
Dangers of the prairie—Our travellers attacked by Indians, and delivered in a remarkable manner.
There are periods in the life of almost all men when misfortunes seem to crowd upon them in rapid succession, when they escape from one danger only to encounter another, and when, to use a well-known expression, they succeed in leaping out of the frying-pan at the expense of plunging into the fire.
So was it with our three friends upon this occasion. They were scarcely rid of the Blackfeet, who found them too watchful to be caught napping, when, about daybreak one morning they encountered a roving band of Camanchee Indians, who wore such a warlike aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible.
“They don’t see us yit, I guess,” said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie, “any if we only can escape their sharp eyes till we’re in yonder clump o’ willows, we’re safe enough.”
“But why don’t you ride up to them, Joe,” inquired Dick, “and make peace between them and the Pale-faces, as you ha’ done with other bands?”
“Because it’s o’ no use to risk our scalps for the chance o’ makin’ peace wi’ a rovin’ war-party. Keep yer head down, Henri! If they git only a sight o’ the top o’ yer cap, they’ll be down on us like a breeze o’ wind.”
“Hah! let dem come!” said Henri.
“They’ll come without askin’ yer leave,” remarked Joe drily.
Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henri had sufficient prudence to induce him to bend his head and shoulders, and in a few minutes they reached the shelter of the willows unseen by the savages. At least so thought Henri, Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best.
In the course of half an hour the last of the Camanchees was seen to hover for a second on the horizon, like a speck of black against the sky, and then to disappear.
Immediately the three hunters bolted on their steeds and resumed their journey; but before that evening closed they had sad evidence of the savage nature of the band from which they had escaped. On passing the brow of a slight eminence,