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<h3>Chapter Seventy Nine.</h3> <h4>Tragic and Comic.</h4> Some words passed between us as we went. For my companion, I had news that would make him supremely happy. Our conversation turned not on that. “Soon enough,” thought I, “when they shall come together. Let both hearts be blessed at the same time.” Ah! how my own was bleeding. Little suspected the Spanish hunter how his tale had tortured me! Wingrove, in brief detail, gave me the particulars of his escape. Like myself, he had been captured without receiving any serious injury. They would have killed him afterwards, but for the interference of the Chicasaw, who, by some means, had gained an ascendancy over the Red-Hand! In the breast of this desperate woman burned alternately the passions of love and revenge. The former had been for the time in the ascendant; but she had saved the captive’s life, only in the hope of making him her captive. She had carried him to the copse, where he had passed the night in her company—one moment caressed and entreated—in the next reviled, and menaced with the most cruel death! In vain had he looked for an opportunity to get away from her. Like a jealous tigress had she watched him throughout the live-long night; and it was only in the confusion, created by our sudden approach, that he had found a chance of escape from the double guardianship in which he had been held. All this was made known to me in a few hurried phrases. Sure-shot! we were within speaking distance; but who could have identified the Yankee in such a guise? The tricoloured escutcheon I had myself so lately borne—the black face, shoulders, and arms—the white circle on the breast—the red spot—all just as they had painted me! “Jehosophet an’ pigeon-pie!” cried he, as he saw us approach; “air it yeou, capting? an’ Wingrove, teoo!” “Yes, brave comrade! Your shot has saved us all. Patience! we shall soon set you free!” Leaping down from our horses, we hurried up the sloping path. I was still anxious about Sure-shot’s safety; but in another moment, my anxiety was at an end. He was yet unscathed. Like myself, he had received some scratches, but no wound of a dangerous character. Like myself, he had died a hundred deaths, and yet lived! His gleesome spirit had sustained him throughout the dread ordeal. He had even joked with his cruel tormentors! Now that the dark hour was past, his jeux d’esprit were poured forth with a continuous volubility. No; not continuous. At intervals, a shadow crossed his spirit, as it did that of all of us. We could not fail to lament the fate of the unfortunate Hibernian. “Poor Petrick!” said Sure-shot, as we descended the slope, “he weer the joyfulest kimrade I ever hed, an’ we must gi’ him the berril o’ a Christyan. I wonder neow what on airth them verming lies done wi’ him? Wheer kin they have hid his body?” “True—where is it? It was out yonder on the plain? I saw it there: they had scalped him.” “Yees; they sculped him at the time we weer all captered. He weer lying jest out theer last night at sundown. He ain’t theer now; nor ain’t a been this mornin’, or I’d a seed him. What do ees think they’ve done wi’ him anyhow?” The disappearance of the body was singular enough. It had undoubtedly been removed from the spot where it had lain; and was now nowhere to be seen! It was scarcely probable that the wolves had eaten it, for the Indians had been all night upon the ground; and their camp-fires were near. True, the coyotes would have cared little for that; but surely the brutes could not have carried the body clear away? The bones, at least, would have remained? There were none—not a trace either of body or bones! We passed around the butte, and made search on the other side. There was no dead body there—no remains of one. Ha—the river! It swept past within fifty yards of the mound. It would account for the disappearance of the corpse. Had the Indians thrown it into the water? We walked towards the stream, half mechanically. We had little expectation of finding the remains of the unfortunate man. The current rushed rapidly on: the body would have been taken along with it? “Maybe it mout hev lodged somewheres?” suggested Sure-shot. “Ef we shed find it, capting, I’d like to put a sod over him, for old times’ sake. Shell we try down the stream?” We followed the bank downward. A little below grew willows, forming a selvedge to the river’s edge. Their culms curved over, till the long quivering leaves dipped into the water. Here and there were thickets of them extending back into the plain. Only by passing through these could the bank of the river be reached. We entered among the willows, Wingrove going in the advance. I saw him stoop suddenly, as if to examine the ground. An exclamation escaped him, and the words: “Someb’dy’s crawled through hyar, or been dragged through—one o’ the two ways.” “No!” added he, after a moment, “he’s not been dragged; he’s been creepin’ on his hands an’ knees. Look thar! the track o’ a knee, as clar as daylight; an’, by the tarnal! it’s been covered wi’ broad-cloth. No Injun kud a made that mark!” We all bent over to examine the sign. Sure enough, it was the track of a man’s knee; and the plastic mud exhibited on its surface a print of fretted lines, which must have been made by coarse threadbare cloth! “By Gosh!” exclaimed Sure-shot, “that eer’s the infantry overall—the givernment cloth to a sartingty. Petrick’s been abeout heer. Lordy, tain’t possyble he’s still living?” “Shure-shat! Shure-shat! Mother ov Moses! is it yerself I hear?” The voice reached us in a hoarse whisper. It appeared to rise out of the earth! For some moments, we all stood, as if petrified by surprise. “Shure-shat!” continued the voice, “won’t yez help me out? I’m too wake to get up the bank.” “Petrick, as I’m a livin’ sinner! Good Lordy, Petrick! wheer air ye? ’Tain’t possyble yeer alive?” “Och, an’ shure I’m aloive, that same. But I’m more than half did, for all that; an’ nearly drownded to boot. Arrah, boys! rache me a hand, an’ pull me out—for I can’t move meself—one of my legs is broke.” We all three rushed down to the water—whence the voice appeared to come. Under the drooping willows, where the current had undermined the bank, we perceived an object in motion. A fearful object it was to look upon: it was the encrimsoned skull of our scalped comrade! His body was submerged below the surface. His head alone was visible—a horrid sight! The three of us leaped at once into the stream; and, raising the poor fellow in our arms, lifted him out on the bank. It was as he had alleged. One of his legs was broken below the knee; and other frightful wounds appeared in different parts of his body. No wonder the Indians had believed him dead, when they stripped off that terrible trophy! Notwithstanding the ill usage he had received, there was still hope. His wounds, though ugly to the eye, were none of them mortal. With care, he might recover; and, taking him up as tenderly as possible, we conveyed him back to the butte. The Arapahoes had left their impedimenta behind them—blankets and robes at discretion. With these, a soft couch was prepared under the shade of the waggon body, and the wounded man placed upon it. Such rude dressing, as we were able to give, was at once administered to his wounds; and we found new joy in the anticipation of his recovery. His disappearance—from the spot where he had been left for dead—was explained. He had “played ’possum,” as he himself expressed it. Though roughly handled, and actually senseless for a time, he had still clung to life. He knew that the Indians believed him dead—else why should they have scalped him? With a faint hope of being left upon the field, he had lain still, without stirring hand or foot; and the savages, otherwise occupied, had not noticed him after taking his scalp. By some accident, his hands had got over his face; and, perceiving that these screened his countenance from observation, he had permitted them to remain so. With half-opened eyes, he could see between his fingers, and note many of the movements that were passing upon the plain in front of him—all this without the Indians having the slightest suspicion that he lived! It was a terrible time for him—an ordeal equal to that endured by Sure-shot and myself. Every now and then some half drunken savage would come staggering past; and he knew not how soon some one of these strollers might stick a spear into him, out of mere wantonness! On the arrival of night, his hopes had revived; and the cool air had also the effect of partially restoring his strength. The savages, carousing around their fires, took no notice of him; and, as soon as darkness was fairly down, he had commenced crawling off in the direction of the river. He had a double object in going thither. He was suffering from horrid thirst; and he hoped there to find relief, as well as a hiding-place. After crawling for more than an hour, he had succeeded in reaching the bank; and, taking to the water, he had waded down, and concealed himself under the willows—in the place where we had found him. Such was the adventure of the ci-devant soldier, Patrick O’Tigg—an escape almost miraculous! As if fulfilling the laws of dramatic justice—that the farce should succeed the tragedy—our attention was at this moment called to a ludicrous incident. The Mexican trapper had ridden up, and halted beside the waggon; when all at once his eyes became fixed upon an object that lay near at hand upon the grass. It was the black silk hat of the ex-rifleman, already mentioned in our narrative. After gazing at it for a moment, the Mexican slid down from his horse; and, hobbling towards the hat, took it up. Then uttering a fierce “Carajo,” he dashed the “tile” back to the ground, and commenced stamping upon it, as if it had been some venomous serpent he desired to annihilate! “Hilloo! theer, hombre!” shouted Sure-shot. “What the ole scratch air ye abeout? Why, ye yeller-bellied fool, thet’s my hat yeer stompin’ on!” “Your hat!” echoed the trapper in a contemptuous tone. “Carrambo, señor! you should be ashamed of yourself. Any man who would wear a silk hat! Wagh!” “An’ why ain’t a silk hat as good’s any other?” “Maldito sea!” continued the trapper, taking the wooden leg from his waist, and hammering the hat with it against a stone—“maldito sombrero! but for that accursed invention, we poor trappers wouldn’t be as we are now. Carrambo! it’s fetched beaver down to a plew a plug; while only ten years ago, we could get six pesos the skin! Only think of that! Carrai-i-i!” Pronouncing this last exclamation with bitter aspirate, the incensed trapper gave the unfortunate hat one more blow with his timber leg; and then, spurning the battered tile from his toe, hobbled back to his horse! Sure-shot was disposed to be angry, but a word set all right. I perfectly comprehended the nature of the trapper’s antipathy to silk hats, and explained it to my comrade. In their eyes, the absurd head-gear is more hideous than even to those who are condemned to wear it—for the trappers well know, that the introduction of the silk hat has been the ruin of their peculiar calling. “’Twan’t much o’ a hat, after all,” said Sure-shot, reconciled by the explanation. “It b’longed to the sutler at the Fort: for yee see, capting, as we left theere for a leetle bit o’ a hurry, I couldn’t lay my claws on my own ole forage-cap; so I took the hat in its place? an’ thet’s how I kim by the thing. But heer’s a hat perhaps, mister, this heer’ll pleeze ye better? Will it, eh?” As Sure-shot put the question, he took up the plumed bonnet of an Arapaho warrior—which had been left lying among the rocks—and, adjusting the gaudy circlet upon his head, strode backward and forward over the ground with all the swelling majesty of an Indian dandy! The odd-looking individual and his actions caused the laughter of the bystanders to break forth in loud peals. The Mexican fairly screamed, interlarding his cachinnations with loud “santissimas,” and other Spanish exclamations; while even the wounded man under the waggon was unable to restrain himself at the mirth-provoking spectacle. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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