Gustave Aimard
The Missouri Outlaws

CHAPTER X.
WHO THE STRANGER WAS

As soon as the farmer had taken some slight refreshment and assured himself as to the comfortable position in which he was placed, he took his leave. The day was far advanced, and he had to meet his brother on a matter of business.

On leaving George, the squatter bent low on his horse, and after one last glance at the hut:

"Beware, my friend," he said, "of the wounded man. I think him an unmitigated rascal. Get rid of him."

"I will take your advice. I do not like him myself, and as soon as he can travel he shall surely go."

And, after mutual promises to meet again, the two friends parted, and Samuel rode off in hot haste. George watched him until he was quite out of sight.

He then sighed. The departure of Samuel had broken the last link between the charming events of the morning and the more matter-of-fact events of the evening. He now gloomily turned on his heel, and found himself face to face with the three travellers accompanied by Keen-hand.

"You are not going?" he cried.

"No," answered Bright-eye; "on the contrary, if you will allow us, we intend remaining some little time."

"You will give me great satisfaction," continued Clinton, "use my house entirely as your own."

The hunters bowed courteously.

"We have come to meet you," said Oliver, "because, having something to say, we prefer the open air."

"Yes," continued Bright-eye, "though the wounded man whom you have so generously entertained is as yet incapable of listening, your servants – "

"Are discreet and devoted," observed Clinton.

"We know that, and have taken no precautions against them."

"You would have been very unwise to do so. Morris and Stephen knew me from my birth. They love me as if I were a child of their own. I have no secrets from them and should be sorry to wound their feelings."

"I was prepared for that objection," said Keen-hand, "and was therefore careful to warn them."

"You have done well, Charbonneau, as I would not for the world offend those worthy fellows. And now, gentlemen, follow me, and I will take you where you can speak openly without fear of being overheard."

Saying which George moved away from the house and led them to a hillock, wholly without trees, overlooking the river, and whence he could see a long way.

"This is my observatory," he said, smiling.

"Admirably well chosen," replied Oliver.

On the invitation of Clinton everyone seated himself on the grass, and lit his pipe; then Bright-eye, who appeared general spokesman, addressed their host.

"We have learned from Keen-hand that you have not long left the cities of the United States to visit for a time the prairies of the Far West."

"I have no reason for making any secret of the matter."

"Everyone is master of his own actions," continued Bright-eye, "and we have no right to inquire in any way into your affairs. We only desire to indicate you as new to prairie customs."

"I am not very learned in the matter, and am therefore wholly guided by my hunter, who, despite his youth, is an old runner of the woods. But as I see no motive for this conversation, I should be glad if it were abridged."

"One question first – Are you prepared as a dweller in the desert to submit to its habits and customs?" asked Bright-eye.

"As long as they are just and reasonable," said the other, "I pledge my word to be guided by them."

"We find that your friend here described you well."

"Still you must be aware that you are keeping me waiting."

"Two words will explain," said Bright-eye; "we demand the body of the wounded man yonder."

"What to do?" cried Clinton.

"To apply Lynch law to him," coldly replied the hunter.

The young man shuddered, a livid pallor spread over his countenance; he looked at the hunters, who nodded their heads, with a glance of horror.

"What do you mean, gentlemen?" he cried; "Do you intend to torture this man, whose life hangs on a thread?"

"It is our right and our duty, not to torture him, but to try him, and execute the sentence, whatever it may be, at once."

"This is terrible!" cried the young man.

"You do not know him. If, for reasons best known to ourselves, we feigned not to know him, now that your friend has left we will tell you who the wretch is."

"No matter who he is," cried Clinton, fiercely, "all I know is that he is wounded and under the protection of my roof."

"Your sentiments of humanity do you honour," said Bright-eye, ironically; "they are well suited to civilised society, where the law defends you. In the desert they have no meaning. Every moment menaced with death, you must cut down your murderous foes without mercy."

"Better be victim than executioner," said George.

"If you like to present your breast to the enemies, that is your lookout; we beg to differ from you."

"But, gentlemen – " said Clinton, haughtily.

"You made a promise. Do you or do you not intend to be bound by it?" asked Bright-eye.

"This is your return for my hospitality."

"You are unjust, sir; we are but the instruments of public opinion, about to accomplish a painful duty, guided by our conscience and our sense of right. Do you give this man up to us, yes or no?" he continued.

"Take him, if you insist; but as on your private authority you judge this man, I will defend him."

"We are delighted to hear it."

"When do you intend trying this man who is dangerously wounded and nearly insensible?"

"He is not so ill as he pretends to be," replied Bright-eye; "and we intend trying him at once."

"Come, then, for the matter is getting wearisome," said George.

All returned to the house. Oliver and Numank had not spoken, but their firm step, their knitted brows, their flashing eyes, sufficiently indicated that they fully agreed with Bright-eye in his intentions.

When they entered the room where the wounded man lay he was quite conscious; his face, of an earthy pallor, had two red spots on the cheeks; the pearly sweat fell heavily from his brow; his eyes were half closed, but he could clearly see through his lashes. His attitude was that of a tiger at bay, unaware from what side danger was likely to come.

Bright-eye looked at him with such pertinacity that after a time he was compelled to open his eyes.

The Canadian smiled, whispered to Keen-hand, who nodded his head, and soon left the hut.

"Gentlemen," said Bright-eye in a loud tone, "we will at once proceed to instal the head of the court of Judge Lynch."

"You are the chief," said the others.

"I accept. You will be the accusers. I shall at once take my seat, as we are here to judge this man."

"You forget I am here to defend him," remarked Clinton.

"You are quite right," replied Bright-eye; "pray therefore attend carefully to the accusations I am about to make against him; you can then undertake his defence, if, indeed, when you know all, you care to do so."

The wounded man had appeared motionless and insensible to all around him, but on hearing the generous words of the young man, spoken in a gentle voice, he seemed to shiver all over, and, raising himself a little, looked keenly at George Clinton, with a glance of gratitude.

Bright-eye meanwhile reflected a moment, folded his arms, and throwing back his head spoke:

"Prisoner," he said, "you are before a terrible tribunal. Judge Lynch has been appointed to condemn you if guilty, to absolve you if innocent. Prepare yourself to hear and answer the charges made against you."

"I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of Judge Lynch," said the man; "you are a tribunal of assassins."

"As you please," replied the Canadian; "but your silence will be treated as a confession of guilt."

The accused shuddered.

"Why, instead of leaving me to die in the prairie, was I brought here?" he asked; "Is hospitality a mere trick?"

"The man is right," cried George; "I cannot suffer such things to pass under my roof. I protest, in the name of humanity, against all that is being done. You dishonour me by acting in this manner here."

"The jurisdiction of Judge Lynch is universal in the desert," was the cold reply; "none can check it. This man is an outlaw of the prairies, a man of blood and crime. Louis Querehard, Paul Sambrun, Tom Mitchell, and half a dozen aliases – you see we know you well – eleven days ago you basely attacked an old man in charge of a young girl; you killed the old man from behind at the Elk's Leap. Where is the young girl?"

"Base calumny," cried the wounded man, sitting up suddenly; "I know not what you mean. I killed no old man."

"I repeat that you killed the old man and stole away the girl. I have the proofs," he answered.

The wounded man sat biting his lips with rage.

"This morning," continued Bright-eye, "you quarrelled with one of your accomplices, while crossing this valley, and fell from the treachery of your fellow bandit."

"Falsehood!" cried the wounded man.

"We shall soon see," said the Canadian, coldly, and putting his fingers to his lips he uttered a shrill whistle.

A noise was heard and several men entered. These were Keen-hand, two servants of Clinton, and a prisoner – a man of wretched, mean, and ignoble appearance.

"This is your accomplice," said Bright-eye.

"I don't know him," replied the wounded man.

"You don't know me?" cried the other; "Really now, have you already forgotten poor Camotte?"

"You declare this man unknown to you?" said the judge. "Well, be it so. Now, fellow," to the man Camotte, "will you confess?"

"Caray, yes," said the prisoner, "anything you like."

"Speak then," responded Bright-eye: "we wait."

"Miserable wretch," asked the wounded man, "are you a traitor?"

"My good sir, I object to be hung," he answered.

"It is useless to question that rascal," said the wounded man. "I will tell you all you want to know; but before we go any further it must be on one condition."

"We decline to accept conditions," was the reply.

"Then beware. I alone know where the young girl is concealed. Refuse my conditions and my secret dies with me."

"It is true," said Camotte, in answer to a look from Bright-eye.

"What are your conditions?" resumed the judge.

"My life, liberty, and three hours' start," said the outlaw; "also the company of my friend Camotte yonder," he added, with a sneer, as that individual shivered; "further, I require my horse, arms, and my valise. On these conditions you shall have the young girl: I swear it."

"Anything else?" continued the judge.

"One moment," observed George; "I ask for him eight days to recover from his wound, during which time he shall remain here under my guardianship and yours."

"We consent," said Bright-eye, gloomily; "now speak."

"The girl is concealed twelve miles away, in the Cavern of the Elk. I was going there with food when I was shot. Make haste."

Scarcely had he finished ere Oliver and the chief disappeared.

"Beware of my vengeance," cried Bright-eye, "if you have spoken falsely."

"I have spoken the truth," said the wounded man, and fainted.

CHAPTER XI.
EXPLANATIONS

We must go back a little in order to explain how the three hunters were driven to seek hospitality in the hut of George Clinton, and what were the motives of the deadly hatred they had vowed against the wounded, almost dying, man.

At the time of which we write nearly the whole American continent, north and south, was owned by Spain, which ruled her provinces with a yoke of iron, closed to all other nations with as much jealousy as ever was shown by China.

The United States alone stood free, independent.

The newly enfranchised people were, however, well aware that as long as the rest of the land was not free their work was unfinished.

Besides, it became necessary to give employment to the restless spirits let loose by the close of the war.

The Government at once set to work. The territory of the new republic was already immense, but thinly peopled, almost unknown, and occupied in many instances by wandering Indian tribes. These must first be got rid of.

The activity of the Americans is known. They rushed off into the desert, they erected forts to awe the redskins; hardy pioneers traversed the prairies and established settlements in the very heart of the Indian country.

Every encouragement was given to emigrants from Europe, who were received most hospitably.

The Government was favoured by circumstances; it was a rising power while Spain was falling to pieces.

The American Government at once offered to buy Louisiana of France, and meanwhile sent out small companies of free corps to attack the frontier of the Spanish colonies. But alongside those recognised by the authorities were other bands, men isolated from all civilisation, having no control to fear, recruited from the scum which froths up during troublous times; these bands made war on their own account, pillaged friend and foe, burned haciendas, and allied themselves with the redskins, taking their dress in order the more readily to carry out their nefarious designs.

Among these bands was one more formidable than all the others of sad and monstrous celebrity.

This troop of two hundred desperadoes, called themselves outlaws, and, it was believed, though no one exactly knew their headquarters, were established on the Missouri, whence they carried their depredations far and near.

Powerfully organised, submitting to strict discipline, this band had spies in every direction, who kept them well informed, not only as to the number and strength of caravans about to cross the desert, with their destination, but as to the expeditions sent out by Government against themselves. By these means they were always on their guard and never taken by surprise.

The chief of this terrible band was said to have only been six years in America, and yet he knew all the secrets of the desert; he was as clever as the most cunning and astute runner of the woods, quite equal to any redskin in deceit. He was supposed to be a Frenchman, though he spoke English, Spanish, and many Indian languages equally well. He was called Querehard, Sambrun, Magnaud, Tom Mitchell, and various other names.

But none knew his real one, though some did whisper that he was the chief of a certain fearful band who had played so terrible a part during the Reign of Terror.

Many asserted that he was not so bad as he was painted – that, in fact, though chief of this fearful crew, he always tried to prevent bloodshed, that he never allowed women and children to be ill-treated.

He was said to be very generous, and had as many friends as enemies.

Whatever the truth, Tom Mitchell was a kind of hero; the American and Spanish Governments had placed a price upon his head; but no one ever ventured to try for the reward of ten thousand dollars.

After the medicine council we have recorded, Numank-Charake and his two friends continued their journey.

On the seventh day, an hour before the setting of the sun, they reached a village built in the fork of two rivers.

The village was surrounded by lofty palisades, with a ditch full of water, and drawbridges.

The travellers came up just as these were being removed.

They were warmly received by an eager crowd.

Since his landing in America this was the first time Oliver had entered a real village of redskins.

He was surprised to find it so superior to what he expected. Instead of ordinary bison tents, or huts made with hurdles, mud, and thatch, it consisted of admirably constructed Canadian cabins.

These cabins stood in rows, with small gardens in front, while here and there were some real Indian wigwams.

Those Canadians who had retreated with their families to the tribe of Bison Hurons had introduced these habits. Hence the rather hybrid character of the village, which was half Canadian and half Indian.

Reaching the centre of the village Numank left his companions, while Bright-eye pointed out a most comfortable looking cabin and declared it to be his home.

At the entrance stood two men leaning on their rifles. One, nearly a centenarian, but still robust and very tall, had a large white beard; his eyes still shone brightly, his complexion was the colour of brick, while his ropy muscles could be seen through his parchment skin. His expression was gentle and full of courage. This was the grandfather of the hunter, an old soldier of Montcalm.

The second was Bright-eye's father, whom he resembled in every particular except age and height.

"They indeed appear a noble couple," whispered Oliver.

"Come with me," was the laconic reply.

In a few minutes they were at the door of the cabin. Bright-eye dismounted and took off his fur cap.

"I am back after a long absence. Give me your blessing."

"Take it with all our hearts," cried the two old men.

They then shook hands cordially, Oliver looking on with a deep sigh of envy and regret.

"He at all events has a family," he said.

"Come nearer, my friend," cried Bright-eye; and when Oliver stood beside him, he added, "this is Oliver, my friend. Eight days ago we met in the savannah, and we have never parted since. He loves me and I love him; he is a brave man and a most excellent hunter; our friend, the redskin, calls him Bounding Panther."

"He is welcome," said the old man; "all Frenchmen are our brothers; as long as he chooses to remain there is a hut to shelter him and a quarter of venison for his food."

"Well spoken, father," said his son, shaking hands with the young Frenchman; "we are French here. Welcome."

"Messieurs," replied Oliver, with a bow and a smile, "it is not with words we answer such words, but by acts."

"We welcome you as a second son; come in."

The horses were now taken away by a young Indian, and the whole party entered the house.

The hut, which was built with logs, was whitewashed both in and out, and had four windows.

Oliver entered a rather large hall, lit by two of the windows, with a plank flooring, and a roof supported by heavy beams; at one end was a large chimney, near the kitchen a table, some seats and chairs, two oaken dressers covered by utensils in brown earthenware, and a large old-fashioned clock composed the furniture.

Two doors led, one into the kitchen, the other into the guests' room, which was pointed out to Oliver.

There were three other rooms, one occupied by the two old men, one by Bright-eye, and one by his sister when at home.

All were furnished alike; a bed, a little table, several boxes, two or three chairs; some hideously coloured prints from Epinal were fixed on the walls, also pipes of all sorts and sizes, a French long gun, a powder horn, lead pouch, game bag, hatchet, a knife with its deerskin belt, that was all.

It was one floor, except a large loft above.

Behind the house there was stabling for six horses, a yard with fowls, a rather large garden, well enclosed and full of choice vegetables. It was the old man who took care of the garden as child's play.

When, having made some slight change in his toilette, Oliver returned to the hall dinner was on the table.

"Have you had good hunting lately?" asked Bright-eye.

"Not very good. Game gets scarce. Still I made three hundred and seventy dollars in a fortnight," he replied.

"Pretty fair; and what was your game?"

"The blue fox, near Hudson's Bay," continued the other; "I have been home three weeks. But you say nothing of your sister."

"I am not in the habit of questioning you, father."

"The boy is right," said the old man; "it is your place to speak."

"I suppose," cried the hunter, "Angela is in the village."

"No, my son, she is absent," continued the old man, "and I am sorry for it, as she was the joy of the house."

"Where is she then, father?" asked Bright-eye.

"About five days' march, with our cousin Lagrenay, the squatter of the Wind River. His wife has been ill, he is alone; having no one to take care of her, he came here and asked for Angela to stay a few days."

"My dear father, our cousin Lagrenay's settlement is a long way off, in the heart of the Indian country."

"You are right," said his father; "I fear I have acted with too great haste. I will fetch her home tomorrow."

"I will go with you, father."

"It is unnecessary. Your health, sir," addressing Oliver; "is it long since you left France?"

"Many thanks. I have been in America two months."

"Though so far off news is welcome. How is the king?"

"There is no longer any king," said Oliver, gravely; "France is now a republic like America."

While the stupefaction which this news caused was still at its height Numank-Charake entered.

"Welcome; be seated and eat," said the old man.

"I came neither to eat nor to drink," replied the young Indian, sadly. "I came to tell you that your child, Evening Dew, has been carried off by Tom Mitchell, the outlaw, and that we must at once save her."