In less time than it takes to describe it, the horses tethered near the lodges were mounted and twenty riders were in pursuit. But the Bannock was considerably in advance now, and the fine black horse he rode held its own nobly. Out over the prairie flew the pursuing Cayuses, yelling like demons, the fugitive turning now and then to utter a shout of derision.
Back at the lodges, the crowd of spectators looked on with excited comments.
“His horse is tired, ours are fresh!” “They gain on him!” “No, he is getting farther from them!” “See, he throws away his blanket!” “They are closer, closer!” “No, no, his horse goes like a deer.”
Out over the prairies, fleeting like the shadow of a hurrying cloud, passed the race, the black horse leading, the Cayuse riders close behind, their long hair outstreaming, their moccasins pressed against their horses’ sides, their whips falling without mercy. Down a canyon they swept in pursuit and passed from the ken of the watchers at the camp, the black horse still in the van.
But it could not cope with the fresh horses of the Cayuses, and they gained steadily. At last the pursuers came within bowshot, but they did not shoot; the fugitive knew too well the reason why. Woe unto him if he fell alive into their hands! He leaned low along his horse’s neck, chanting a weird refrain as if charming it to its utmost speed, and ever and anon looked back with that heart-shaking shout of defiance. But steadily his pursuers gained on him; and one, outstripping the rest, rode alongside and reached out to seize his rein. Even as he touched it, the Bannock’s war-club swung in air and the Cayuse reeled dead from his saddle. A howl of rage burst from the others, a whoop of exultation from the fugitive.
But at length his horse’s breath grew short and broken, he felt its body tremble as it ran, and his enemies closed in around him.
Thrice the war-club rose and fell, thrice was a saddle emptied; but all in vain. Quickly his horse was caught, he was dragged from the saddle and bound hand and foot.
He was thrown across a horse and brought back to the village. What a chorus of triumph went up from the camp, when it was seen that they were bringing him back! It was an ominous sound, with something of wolfish ferocity in it. But the Bannock only smiled grimly.
He is bound to a post,—a charred, bloodstained post to which others of his race have been bound before him. The women and children taunt him, jeer at him, strike him even. The warriors do not. They will presently do more than that. Some busy themselves building a fire near by; others bring pieces of flint, spear points, jagged fragments of rock, and heat them in it. The prisoner, dusty, torn, parched with thirst, and bleeding from many wounds, looks on with perfect indifference. Snoqualmie comes and gazes at him; the prisoner does not notice him, is seemingly unconscious of his presence.
By and by a band of hunters ride up from a long excursion. They have heard nothing of the trouble. With them is a young Bannock who is visiting the tribe. He rides up with his Cayuse comrades, laughing, gesticulating in a lively way. The jest dies on his lips when he recognizes the Bannock who is tied to the stake. Before he can even think of flight, he is dragged from his horse and bound,—his whilom comrades, as soon as they understand the situation, becoming his bitterest assailants.
For it is war again, war to the death between the tribes, until, two centuries later, both shall alike be crushed by the white man.
At length the preparations are complete, and the women and children, who have been swarming around and taunting the captives, are brushed aside like so many flies by the stern warriors. First, the young Bannock who has just come in is put where he must have a full view of the other. Neither speaks, but a glance passes between them that is like a mutual charge to die bravely. Snoqualmie comes and stands close by the prisoner and gives directions for the torture to begin.
The Bannock is stripped. The stone blades that have been in the fire are brought, all red and glowing with heat, and pressed against his bare flesh. It burns and hisses under the fiery torture, but the warrior only sneers.
“It doesn’t hurt; you can’t hurt me. You are fools. You don’t know how to torture.”[4]
No refinement of cruelty could wring a complaint from him. It was in vain that they burned him, cut the flesh from his fingers, branded his cheek with the heated bowl of the pipe he had broken.
“Try it again,” he said mockingly, while his flesh smoked. “I feel no pain. We torture your people a great deal better, for we make them cry out like little children.”
More and more murderous and terrible grew the wrath of his tormentors, as this stream of vituperation fell on their ears. Again and again weapons were lifted to slay him, but Snoqualmie put them back.
“He can suffer more yet,” he said; and the words were like a glimpse into the cold, merciless heart of the man. Other and fiercer tortures were devised by the chief, who stood over him, pointing out where and how the keenest pain could be given, the bitterest pang inflicted on that burned and broken body. At last it seemed no longer a man, but a bleeding, scorched, mutilated mass of flesh that hung to the stake; only the lips still breathed defiance and the eyes gleamed deathless hate. Looking upon one and another, he boasted of how he had slain their friends and relatives. Many of his boasts were undoubtedly false, but they were very bitter.
“It was by my arrow that you lost your eye,” he said to one; “I scalped your father,” to another; and every taunt provoked counter-taunts accompanied with blows.
At length he looked at Snoqualmie,—a look so ghastly, so disfigured, that it was like something seen in a horrible dream.
“I took your sister prisoner last winter; you never knew,—you thought she had wandered from home and was lost in a storm. We put out her eyes, we tore out her tongue, and then we told her to go out in the snow and find food. Ah-h-h! you should have seen her tears as she went out into the storm, and––”
The sentence was never finished. While the last word lingered on his lips, his body sunk into a lifeless heap under a terrific blow, and Snoqualmie put back his blood-stained tomahawk into his belt.
“Shall we kill the other?” demanded the warriors, gathering around the surviving Bannock, who had been a stoical spectator of his companion’s sufferings. A ferocious clamor from the women and children hailed the suggestion of new torture; they thronged around the captive, the children struck him, the women abused him, spat upon him even, but not a muscle of his face quivered; he merely looked at them with stolid indifference.
“Kill him, kill him!” “Stretch him on red hot stones!” “We will make him cry!”
Snoqualmie hesitated. He wished to save this man for another purpose, and yet the Indian blood-thirst was on him; chief and warrior alike were drunken with fury, mad with the lust of cruelty.
As he hesitated, a white man clad in the garb of an Indian hunter pushed his way through the crowd. Silence fell upon the throng; the clamor of the women, the fierce questioning of the warriors ceased. The personality of this man was so full of tenderness and sympathy, so strong and commanding, that it impressed the most savage nature. Amid the silence, he came and looked first at the dead body that yet hung motionless from the stake, then sorrowfully, reproachfully, at the circle of faces around. An expression half of sullen shame, half of defiance, crossed more than one countenance as his glance fell upon it.
“Friends,” said he, sadly, pointing at the dead, “is this your peace with the Bannocks,—the peace you prayed the Great Spirit to bless, the peace that was to last forever?”
“The Bannocks sent back the peace-pipe by this man, and he broke it and cast the pieces in our teeth,” answered one, stubbornly.
“And you slew him for it? Why not have sent runners to his tribe asking why it was returned, and demanding to know what wrong you had done,