Originally published: 1872
Genres: Western
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68625
Chapters:
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
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 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.
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