When some gathered around the fallen man, and jeered and taunted him with his defeat, others busied themselves in making preparations for their next scene in the tragic entertainment.
The pyre was soon in process of construction around the trunk of a tree, and as there were many willing hands to gather the dry fagots and green boughs of which it was composed, it did not take long to complete it.
Space was left between the fuel and the tree for the prisoner to stand, and there was also an opening through the pile wide enough to admit of his passage and to allow access to him for any preliminary torments.
Still, no haste was made in leading the condemned man to execution. The pleasure of anticipation was something, and, perhaps, it was deemed best not to have the popular show terminate too soon.
It was yet only about eight o’clock in the morning, and while some of the women and children surrounded the captive—who had again been bound—and amused themselves by inflicting small annoyances upon him, the warriors gathered in squads and entered into an animated discussion of the sport in which they had just been engaged.
Some justified their blunders; some extolled their skill, which had only been defeated by the most extraordinary ill luck; but all agreed in awarding the honors of the day to valiant Bulboo—whatever that[275] might mean—whose club had brought the exhausted man down.
Now, as Bulboo was a half brother to Strong Arm, this result was generally satisfactory, and was probably considered a proof of approval of the ordeal on the part of those unseen powers which guide the destinies of men.
However this may have been, the victor had certainly gained caste and influence by his success, and the thought at once occurred to Buffalo Bill that if anything more could be attempted in behalf of the prisoner in the short time which remained for action, this was the most promising field for effort.
Running Water could do nothing, and the proud Black Panther could not even be approached directly by the white men, to whom he had evidently conceived a hatred; but Bulboo, satisfied with his exploits, might, perhaps, listen to the voice of mercy, for a “consideration,” and be made the medium of a new communication with, and further overtures to, the imperious Black Panther.
Buffalo Bill, in younger days, had been an amateur artist, and he was still a ready, if not very correct, draftsman with the pencil.
Seated under a tree, with his knee for an easel, he drew on the blank leaf of a letter a picture of a prancing horse saddled and bridled, with a tolerable likeness of Bulboo at his side, holding him by the reins.
Then he sketched two other horses, similarly caparisoned, eight or ten guns, two kegs, and made a rather bungling attempt to represent a box of clay pipes and a pile of blankets.
Having completed this picture writing, he watched his opportunity when Black Panther was at a distance, and then he dispatched Congo to ask the chief if he would come and see his white brother once more for[276] a few minutes, and would bring the great warrior Bulboo with him.
Running Water was seated on the grass, smoking his reed pipe and watching the proceedings of those around him, and when he saw the negro approaching he motioned to him to go back, and pointed to the place where the boats were moored, as an intimation that the strangers ought now to depart.
But these inhospitable gestures were evidently made more in sorrow than in anger, and as Joe insisted on coming forward, and began to speak, the chief, by a quick motion of the hand, signified to him to sit down on the ground, with his back to the crowd, of whom but few, if any, were near enough to hear what might be said.
Congo obeyed, and then delivered his message as intelligibly as he could.
“My brother is not wise,” replied Running Water. “He is free now. By and by he may be tied to a tree.”
“Guess notty,” replied Congo. “Come—be goody, Mr. Running Water. You great chiefy.”
The Indian smiled, and replied with a brief eulogy upon his own greatness, of which Joe could understand but little except the drift, but he nodded gravely at the end of each sentence, and repeated:
“Great chiefy.”
But the potent leader did not deport himself like one at liberty to do all that he pleased.
He looked carefully on either side of him, and particularly in the direction in which Black Panther had vanished, and then informed Congo that he would meet his brother in one of the remote wigwams, which he pointed out to him.
“Him go; I come,” he said.
“An’ bring Cap’n Bully Boy?” asked the negro.
“Yes, me bring um.”
[277]
Joe returned with this message, being careful to keep his eye on the lodge which had been named as the rendezvous, and Buffalo Bill, with hopes slightly revived, was soon on his way thither, accompanied by the negro, and regardless of the renewed entreaties of Captain Meinhold to embark, and of the threats of some of the party that they would seize the boats and go without him.
He went saunteringly, so as not to attract attention, and when he was sure that he was unwatched, unless by Running Water, he entered the deserted cabin, and from its one open window looked anxiously forth for the approach of the two men to whom this his last appeal was to be made.
The fact that this was his last hope, and that if it failed his young friend and companion would in a few minutes be in the hands of his tormentors and executioners made him exceedingly nervous.
At one moment he thought that he was foolishly persistent and that, so far from there being any prospect of success, he was only risking his own life and that of his other comrades and the safety of the women by his importunities. But at the next there seemed a little ground for hope, and he could not bear to abandon it.
Running Water and Bulboo soon came, the latter evidently wondering and looking by no means mild and benignant. Yet if his war paint had been washed off, perhaps all his fierceness of expression would have gone with it.
He was a young man, scarcely past thirty years, tall and slim, and clad in a kirtle of deerskin, which extended to his knees, and which, with his leggings and moccasins, constituted his only apparel.
Two dried claws of the grizzly bear, fastened by a leathern string around his neck, rested like epaulets[278] upon his shoulders, and were the badge of his rank as a brave, he having killed the monster whose trophies he thus wore.
Buffalo Bill opened the conference by frankly informing Running Water of his designs, and, by way of making his meaning clear, he exhibited the pictures he had drawn, which at once enlisted the curiosity and excited the admiration of the savages.
Bulboo at once recognized the portraits of himself, for the figure and dress were sufficient to individualize it, and he seemed much pleased with it as a work of art before he comprehended the object for which it had been drawn.
Buffalo Bill, before making any offer of presents which were so likely to delight a savage, reminded the chief that he did not propose to pay for the blood of Strong Arm; but if his people were inclined to be just and merciful he wished to show them what they would gain by it.
The prisoner, he said, was rich. He would give three horses, like those in the sketch, all saddled and bridled, to Running Water, Black Panther, and Bulboo, so that they might each ride to the chase or the battlefield as became their rank.
He would also give a dozen good rifles, a dozen broadcloth blankets, five kegs of fire water, five pounds of powder, two hundred pipes, a barrel of tobacco, a big box full of colored glass beads, and enough earrings and finger rings of the best brass to supply the whole tribe.
“An’ de rigimintals, Massa Cody,” said the watchful Congo, when the other had ended this enumeration of tempting gifts; “put in de rigimintals, for de Injuns t’ink an orful sight of dem.”
Yes, it was well thought of. Two military suits, with epaulets, were added to the list—these also being[279] sketched by Buffalo Bill’s facile pencil—one of them being for the great chief and the other for the great brave, Black Panther.
“An’ one for Bully Boy,” whispered Congo.
No. Buffalo Bill did not wish to make these coveted articles too common, and, but for the fear of offending the chief, he would have offered only one, making it a special prize for Black Panther, whose extensive influence he was especially anxious to secure.
The savages listened with an amazed and puzzled look to this catalogue of treasures, but, much to the disappointment of Buffalo Bill, who watched their countenance closely, they showed no sign of being particularly pleased.
After conversing gruffly, and with seeming anger, in their own language, the chief took up the pictured paper, and said:
“My brother is not wise. These things are not for men—they are for children.”
“No good! No shoot!” added Bulboo.
“Why, Massa Cody,” added Joe, “I’m blamed if dey don’t t’ink it’s de paper horses an’ guns you’se offerin’ dem. Ha! ha! What a pair of ninnyhammers!”
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“Keep still, Joe,” replied the other, smiling, and then proceeding to correct the mistake by assuring the red men, in the best mixed English and Indian that he could command, that he offered them real, living horses, of any color that they chose, and real rifles and blankets, and everything else which he had enumerated, real and substantial, and of the best kind.
“Me no see um,” replied the chief, affecting to look around through the door and window. “Does my brothe............
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CHAPTER XXXVII. RUNNING THE GANTLET.
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CHAPTER XXXIX. AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
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