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THE RED WIZARD;
OR,
THE CAVE CAPTIVE.

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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 of 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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CHAPTER II.

THE SUDDEN AWAKENING.

"Listen to me, Olive, and believe that I feel very deeply the words my tongue utters. You have become very dear to me—dearer than any thing else of this world—and I love you, Olive."

The girl glanced swiftly up from under her long lashes, then dropped her eyes again and her face was crimsoned with blushes, and the little hand he had obtained and was holding firmly, though tenderly, trembled fitfully, and nothing save a sigh escaped her lips.

"Olive," he continued, drawing still nearer to her, "it can not be that I am mistaken—that you look coldly upon me—that you take no pleasure in my society—can not be that you have not seen the true state of my heart? Tell me, am I disagreeable to you?"

"Oh! no, no," she murmured, in deep agitation.

"Then, darling—may I not call you so? Give me hope for the future. When we have finished our journey and the shores of the Pacific are reached, may I not believe you will become mine—be my wife?"

As actions speak even louder than words, so hers told him all he desired to know, and with the clouds of doubt drifted away from their souls, peace came, and love given and returned made them very happy.

Like all unmarried men who cross the plains, when there are pretty women in the company, the doctor, Ernest Mayo, soon found that he had a heart, and that its longings took but one direction.

He met Olive Myers for the first time—a girl slightly his junior, with a fair, pure face, laughing blue eyes, hair of the color of the ripe chestnut when just bursting from the shell, and a mouth that appeared to woo kisses. She was of good parentage (though now an orphan) and well educated.

She was drifting California-ward with an uncle and his family, and as Mayo was a gentleman, gladly accepted his company and protection.

More secure from molestation during the lonely night-watches than at any other time, she was accustomed to keep him company, and this night, when no one was within hearing, the intensity of their hearts strung to passion found vent for the first time.

With his arm around her waist, with one hand clasped in his, with her head resting on and showering down its wealth of chestnut curls upon his shoulder, they remained whispering such impassioned words as only lovers use until near the hour for changing the guard. Then the girl suddenly asked if Parsons had returned.

"No, dearest," he answered. "Do you take an interest in him?"

"I have no interest in any one but you," she answered, turning her blushing face to him and proffering her lips for a kiss. "But I fear him."

"Fear him? On what account?"

"Not for myself, but you, darling."

"I can not understand why, Olive."

"Because, he is envious—jealous!"

"Of me?"

"Yes. He once offered me his love and I refused it, and no later than yesterday he accused me of loving you."

"Which you denied, of course," he replied with a smile.

"I neither denied nor admitted. But I fear when he learns the truth, he will seek an opportunity to injure you," and the bare anticipation made her shudder.

"Don't tremble, little one," he answered, glad of an opportunity to again kiss the red lips. "No harm will come of it. He is a coward."

"But if he should. Oh! heaven!" and her beautiful eyes became misty with tears.

"He will not, be assured. Yet I can pardon him for something of his feelings, in being robbed of so great, so lovely a prize. Olive, darling, what would I have done without you?"

"And I without you?" she murmured in response, as she gave and returned his passionate caresses.

"Indians! Indians!"

They sprung apart, and the scout, who had been sleeping, as he was wont to say, 'with one eye open,' was instantly upon his feet and by their side. But "wolf," had been cried so often that he was disposed to doubt its truth, and springing upon a wagon he looked abroad. The prairie lay as dead and silent as when he last looked upon it, and he would have laughed at their fears had not something in the actions of the horses arrested his attention.

"Thar's something not exactly right thar," he muttered, "for stock don't ginerally make a fuss at this time of the night."

"What do you think can be the cause?" asked the doctor, who, with the girl he loved so tenderly, had drawn near.

"That's mighty hard to tell. It may be a pack of wolves have come between them and ther wind, or ef we war near the timber I should say a b'ar, but that couldn't well be ther case heah. Howsomever, I'm goin' to find out."

"Let me go with you," suggested the doctor.

"For the love of heaven, no!" whispered the distracted Olive, clinging to his arm. "If any thing were to happen to you, darling, I should die."

"The gal am right," replied the scout, sedately, though there was a merry twinkle in his eye. "I had better go alone. Hark!"

He dropped to the ground as suddenly as if felled by a blow, and remained for some time unstirring. His entire manner had changed; all of recklessness departed, and his movements became as cunning as those of a serpent. Still keeping his recumbent position he motioned the physician and said:

"You go and put out ther fires, and mind yer don't git in the light on 'em any more than you kin help."

"But I hear nothing but some wolves whining and howling."

"Yes, wolves. That am ther very name, fer that's what Sioux stands fer. Yes, wolves. Two-legged ones, whose bite ar' death!"

"You can not mean that those sounds are counterfeit?"

"It war well done—very well done—and would have deceived most any one, but, it can't me, by er long shot."

"For goodness sake tell me what you think."

"That ther red-skins am eround—am er callin' ter one enuther, and that they'll most proberbly be down upon ther wagons like er drove of bufflers, that's all!"

"Then do not venture out. Your rifle might be worth a hundred men."

"It kin do some good shootin', that am er fact. But I must try and gather in ther hosses. They am ther fust thing ther red devils will be arter. Ther hosses must be saved or we am lost. Hist! No more talkin'. Get ther gal inter ther most likely place fer safety, and then out with ther fire and see that every one am ready fer fight. Ef I shouldn't ever come back, good-by, and may ther Lord take a likin' ter yer and—and yer sweetheart, and say that Wash Lawton did his dooty, and died like er man."

He crawled swiftly away toward the horses, and it was time some controlling spirit was among them. A few had already broken loose and were running hither and thither, with heads and tails erect, eyes wild with terror, snorting and whistling, while the remainder were straining at their halters and threatening instant stampede.

"Thar am deviltry afoot," he whispered to himself, "and ef I can't save all ther horses I'll try and git one fer ther gal ther doctor loves. Ef ther watch had been good fer any thin' it wouldn't have happened, but it is too late now."

Indeed it was. At that very instant the terrible war-whoop of the Indians rung on every side, and almost countless dark forms skulked in every direction toward one common center. Then all further attempts at concealment were useless, and, with an answering shout, the scout arose and dashed forward, determined—as he had said—to secure at least one steed.

He reached the nearest, cut away the rope, struggled to get within mounting distance, was dragged along in the mad race, nearly trampled under foot, hurried into the tall grass, lifted from his feet and thrown headlong into an ambush of his enemies. Then he was instantly bound and left helpless until the battle was over.

The war-whoop had aroused those about the wagons to a sense of danger. They crowded together like sheep when encircled by enemies—evidently wanting a head. Like painted demons the villains crowded around the doomed emigrants, dancing, leaping, shouting and making the most frantic gestures, accompanied by a shower of arrows, that were answered by the sharp ringing of rifles.

Then the savages rushed forward en masse, and the battle became hand-to-hand. The massacre of men and helpless women and innocent children followed, while the air rung with shrieks for mercy and the groans of the dying as they were cut down, hewed by hatchets, pierced by arrows, crushed by clubs, scalped and hurled into the plundered and burning wagons, even before life was extinct.

An hour after, three wretched prisoners—all that survived of the band of emigrants—were dragged along with ropes around their necks—tied to the horses' tails of the exultant Indians—three only—Olive, the doctor and the scout.

A forced march brought them to a village of the Indians, and the two men were bound and thrown into a wigwam, while the girl was given into the care of the squaws.

What a sudden and bitter awakening from dreams of safety and of love!

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CHAPTER III.

WHAT HATE WILL MAKE A MAN DO.

Stung to the quick by the refusal of his love, and still more so by the somewhat tyrannical conduct of the scout, seconded by the physician, George Parsons suddenly determined upon a bitter revenge.

A frontier born and bred man, he had from childhood been brought in association with the Indians, and knew their ways. Under pretense of hunting, he deserted from the little band to whom he had sworn fealty, and immediately sought for the enemies of the white man.

Fortune favored him. He came across an outlying spy—trailed his rifle, and turning the open palms of his hands toward him, advanced. It was a sort of freemason sign, well known to all the dwellers of the prairies, and it was not long before he and the Indian reached the main body of the savages, and he was soon seated in council with them.

But the Indians, crafty as treacherous, inquired deeply into the motives that made a man thus turn against his own people, and give them to the tomahawk and scalping-knife, or to torture.

"There is a girl among them whom I would make my wife," was the answer.

"Then why does the pale-face not take her?" questioned the chief.

"Because they are too many, and she will have nothing to do with me—loves somebody else."

"Why, then, is not the scalp of the lover at the belt of the brave?"

"That's just what I want, but I have never had a fair chance. Then, too, there is the guide of the party who has more than once insulted me—a trapper who has been here before—knows every foot of the ground, and I presume you know him."

"What sort of a man is the scout?"

Parsons described him minutely, and the Indians looked quickly from one to the other, and though there was no intimation given in words, yet it was evident that they both knew and feared him.

"How many of the pale-faces?"

Parsons enumerated them, and gave an inventory of the train and its means of defense.

"Will the pale-face fight?"

"No. I don't owe any of them a grudge, except as I have told you, and it wouldn't look well for me to be murdering my own people."

"Tell the red-man how the girl looks, that she may not fall by the arrow or the knife."

He did as requested, and found himself forced to endure a searching cross-questioning, for the Indians still feared treachery.

"If the tongue of the pale-face travels the short trail of truth," continued the chief, "he shall be as a brother to the red-man. But if his talk twists as the path of the serpent, then he shall die the same death of torture that he would give to his enemies."

"You will find every thing as I have said."

"Then it will be well. Let him give his weapons to the red-man."

"But I might want to use them."

"Until the braves return from the dogs of the pale-faces, he will be taken care of—be a prisoner."

This was very much more than he had bargained for. But resistance would have been useless, and with any thing but pleasant feelings he handed over rifle, knife, and hatchet.

"I will go with you and show you the way," he said, seeking to gain their favor.

"The red-man needs nothing but the stars to guide them at midnight—nothing but the smoke of the pale-man's fire to tell them where he lies hidden. Let the braves take him to the Medicine and tell him to keep him safe until they return. If his words are true he has nothing to fear. If not, he will learn what it is to be treacherous to the red-man. The Sioux are great warriors and they laugh at the traps of their enemies."

At a signal from the chief the arms of the white renegade were bound behind his back, and accompanied by half a dozen stalwart braves, he was led through and beyond the group of wigwams, out into the forest, and when he questioned where they were going, the only answer he could obtain was:

"To the Medicine."

A short journey and they reached a bluff by the side of a stream that found its way through a rocky cañon. A low, peculiar whistle called from a well-concealed opening the old trickster, who was supposed to hold communion with the moon and stars, the dead, and the great Manitou.

"The great Medicine of the Sioux," said the leader of the party, "will take care of the pale-face until the warriors return."

"It is well. Follow me."

Unable to resist, the already frightened man followed his appointed keeper into the rocky cavern, and by his direction took a seat at the extreme rear. And as his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the darkness, saw that he was surrounded by every thing that was devilish and horrible—by the bones and skulls and scalps of dead men—by bats and owls—by a hideous living bear and a grinning, snarling, spitting wildcat, that exerted all their monstrous strength to tear loose and spring upon him.

"The pale-face will be safe here," said the Medicine, with an almost fiendish smile. "No one will come to do him any harm while I am gone. The air is strong with blood. I can smell it—the blood of the miserable pale-face. I must go and prepare for the torture."

"For the sake of mercy do not leave me alone."

"These," pointing to the savage animals, "will keep you company. But you shall be doubly guarded."

He disappeared for a few moments. Then returned with a handful of brush with the green leaves still clinging to them. These he spread across the cavern, then tore away a stone, and instantly a dozen great, hideous, crawling, hissing rattlesnakes wriggled forth.

"Oh, God!" burst in accents of agony from the lips of the tortured prisoner, as he sunk back to the uttermost limit that was possible.

"These will keep guard over you—see that no one enters and that you do not go out," replied the Medicine, with a devilish grin.

The serpents coiled, twined, twisted, reared their heads, clashed their scales, shook their rattles, darted out their forked tongues and flashed their eyes, that looked like great balls of fire. And momentarily he expected them to creep toward, to coil around, to sting him to death!

"These," repeated the Medicine, "will be your guard."

"And when, in the name of heaven, will you come back?"

"Perhaps to-night—perhaps to-morrow. But, fear not, for you will be safe as long as you remain quiet. If you attempt to escape, a dreadful death will follow."

From the moment the reptiles had been set free, the Medicine had stood at the door of the cavern, through which a little light came in. Now he quickly retreated, shutting the entrance after him, and, more dead than alive, George Parsons was left to the most horrid companionship that the mind can think of. Every moment he expected would be his last, and hours passed of sufficient misery to have driven him stark mad.

He knew not the serpents could not reach him—knew not that the subtle power of the white-ash leaves the Medicine had scattered controlled the serpents far more effectually than fire would have done.

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CHAPTER IV.

THE TEST OF LOVE.

"Wal," was the characteristic exclamation of the scout, though in a low, cautious whisper, as soon as they were alone, "ef this hain't er finishin' er trail about as suddint as any thin' I ever heard tell on."

"And my poor Olive," groaned the physician. "If it were not for her I could face death without a tremor."

"That hain't 'tall likely," was the reply. "Ther best on us can't do that. I've tried it more'n once—hain't no coward—and I know. But that isn't ther thing to be looked arter now, and thar hain't no use mournin' till ther time comes, nuther. Yet I hope ter heaven ther red-skins won't know me, fer it will go hard ef they do."

"Is there no way in which we can save the life of the poor girl?" continued his companion, his thoughts being intent upon her and not giving the slightest heed to what was being said.

"I don't know yet. Ther first thing ter be done is tew git ourselves clear. Ther red devils have tied me fer sartin, and they'll have er high old time ter-night."

"Do you think we shall be molested before morning?"

"It hain't likely, onless ther cussed whisky should drive them so mad that ther elders can't control them. Then thar's no tellin' what mought happen."

"And no one will come to visit us?"

"I reckon not. But it won't matter. Thar never war wolves in a tighter trap."

"You are mistaken. See."

In a few minutes, by some juggling operation the scout had no idea of, the doctor had entirely freed himself, and also released his companion, and they could stretch their limbs at ease. Then they drew still nearer together and the conversation was continued.

"When the whisky has done its work, do you think we can get away?" asked the physician.

"That's mighty hard ter tell."

"And poor Olive, is there any hope for her?"

"I'm goin' ter see."

The scout laid his ear to the ground and remained silent for some time. Then he gently raised one side of the curtains of the wigwam and crept out into the darkness, and the doctor remained alone until the sun was well up.

Then he was dragged forth to the council of braves!

But astonishment was painted upon the faces of all as they saw that his hands were free, and that the scout had disappeared.

"Some traitor has done this!" thundered the chief. "What has become of the other prisoner?"

"That is more than I can tell," responded the physician, who had determined upon his line of conduct. "As to my being untied it was done by spirits. Ask your great Medicine. He will tell you, for he is familiar with them."

"The pale-face talks like a squaw!" sneered the chief.

"What says the great Medicine of the Sioux?"

At the command of the old trickster other ropes were brought. With these he fettered the prisoner in the most complex manner, and he was again thrust into the wigwam. Then wild and dismal groans were heard, low whisperings and frantic laughter, and the physician stepped forth free again, carrying his bonds in his hands!

Although far less superstitious than the majority, the chief was nonplussed—knew not what to say. It was a thing that had never occurred before, and he was at a loss how to act. But, something must be done, and he drew the old Medicine aside and consulted with him. The latter was pale with rage, not unmingled with fear. He had been fairly beaten with his own weapons—fooled before all the tribe. Then he thundered forth:

"Let the pale-face tell who was concealed within the wigwam and untied his bonds, or his tongue shall be torn from his mouth and trampled under foot."

"No one but spirits."

"Foo! Let my brothers go and look."

A number of Indians rushed to do his bidding, but returned with faces that told of being baffled. No one was to be found.

"Did not the Medicine of the Sioux hear me talking to them?" questioned the prisoner.

There was another whispered conversation, and then the Medicine resumed: "I know how to unlock his lips and make him cease his lies," and he gave some command in a very low tone.

In an instant after, the doctor, strong man as he was, trembled, reeled and groaned aloud. Dragged along between two of the most brutal-looking warriors, with their hatchets whirling about her head and threatening death in case of resistance, was the girl he loved!

"For Heaven's sake save me!" she screamed, as soon as she saw him, and rushing forward threw her arms around his neck and fell almost fainting upon his bosom.

"My life for yours—a thousand deaths of torture to save you a single pang," he murmured, as he pressed her to his heart.

"Tear them apart," yelled the chief, and then turning to the Medicine he asked under his breath, "Where is your prisoner?"

"Safe in my cave."

"There let him stay until this trial is over. Then he must be released and the girl given to him. I have so promised. Now to find out what we wish to know."

The doctor and Olive were standing a little apart, her beautiful eyes streaming with tears, and his face convulsed with anguish.

"You love this squaw," continued the chief, "and if you do not want to see her tortured, tell us how you managed to escape."

"I have nothing to tell more than I have already done," he replied. "Oh Olive, Olive!"

"Then let the squaw be prepared for death!"

In an instant she was surrounded by knives—walled in so that the slightest movement would bring her soft, fair flesh against some sharp point. Her lover trembled like one with the ague, then nerved himself with a mighty effort, and returning the defiant looks around him, answered:

"Is it well, great Medicine, that I should tell to other ears than your own the secrets that are whispered by the dead?"

"The pale-face is a dog," commenced the old man, but before he could finish the sentence, a voice was heard coming from the wigwam in which the prisoner had been confined, forbidding that any thing should be told.

Then it was the Medicine's turn to tremble. He looked at the prisoner—at the wigwam—at the sky—at the earth; listened to the waving of the trees and the low whistling of the wind through the branches. But as the voice was not repeated, he, after a time, gathered courage and said:

"It is nothing. Unless the pale-face confesses, let the torture of the squaw go on."

"Oh, heaven!" shrieked the girl, "do you love me and condemn me to this when a single word would save me?"

Every accent—every glance of her eyes went to his heart far more keenly and deeper than a knife would have done, but if he failed in a single point of what he had undertaken, the rest would fall to the ground. So he kept back his own tears, choked down his grief, and endeavored to inform the wretched girl, by signs, of his purpose.

Little time, however, was given him. Indeed, before reflection could come, Olive was dragged along to where a fire-blackened post stood, bound, and half a hundred pair of hands were busy piling bark and kindling, and pitchy fagots around her.

His head fell upon his breast. He became as one numbed—helpless—powerless. Then, again, the screams of the beautiful sufferer rung upon his ears:

"Darling, I die for you. Oh, God, have mercy."

In an instant he had burst through trammel, piled in a heap those who would have restrained him, seized a brand from the pile around his loved one, beating back those who would have opposed, had Olive again locked fast in his arms! Their lips met once—twice, and then they were torn apart, and he fettered so that a single motion was an impossibility.

"Let the hound of a pale-face untie himself now if he can," screamed the old Medicine, frantic with rage, "and the squaw sing her death-song."

"My trust is in God," replied Olive, turning her beautiful but pale face heavenward. "Darling, I pray for you."

"Then let her call upon the Manitou of her people, and see if he will come. He will not, and we will send her to him in ashes!"

The signal was given to fire the pile, and the warriors sprung forward, torch in hand. Like demons let loose they danced around, and as the lurid light flashed into the eyes of the poor girl, and the hot flames touched her skin, she fainted—sunk limp and would have fallen, had it not been for her bands. Her lover could not endure the sight, turned his head, and as he was dragged away, saw the flames rising, and believed the black smoke was wrapped like a shroud around his beautiful one—that she had passed from earth in a pillar of fire!

It was just such an ending as the Indians desired; for, failing to accomplish their purpose of forcing confession, they would have him think her dead.

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CHAPTER V.

TEMPTATION.

Unmanned, shaken to the very innermost part of his nature, and faint both from the stench of the cavern and lack of food and water, the wretched George Parsons waited the return of the Medicine until hope gave way entirely to despair.

Then a light broke in upon him; he saw the old trickster enter, take the poisonous serpents in his hands as if they had been sticks, toss them back into their dens and close the opening, drive bear and wildcat out of sight and advance toward him with a most sardonic smile.

"The pale-face has been well guarded," he said, as if his keepers had been of the most pleasant kind.

"As I never wish to be again. God only knows what I have suffered. I expected the snakes would crawl upon me and sting me to death—expected that every moment would be my last."

"And so it would have been had I not charmed them. But come."

Never did a man get more quickly out of a hateful place. So great was his anxiety to be beyond the horrors he had endured that it forced a smile from even the grim lips of the Medicine, as he led him to a wigwam, where he was treated as a welcome guest might have been.

Relieved from terror, and with his bodily wants supplied, the first thought of the renegade was for the girl, her lover and the scout. The latter he was told had fled like a coward, but swift-footed warriors had started upon the trail and it was more than probable that his scalp was even then hanging at their belts. The lover was in confinement and would die by torture, and the girl he could see at any time.

That time with him was then!

The sufferings he had undergone, in place of softening his heart and bringing pity, had made him still more revengeful, and when he was led into her presence his face was as black as a thunder-cloud.

"Great Heaven!" she exclaimed, instantly surmising the part he had played in the terrible drama, "you here—miserable traitor?"

"Leave us," he said to the Indians. "I would talk to her alone."

"As the pale-face wills. When he is tired of the squaw the red warriors would talk to him also."

His request having been complied with, he hissed:

"Traitor? Better that you use soft words, my lady. Do you know that both yourself and your lover are in my power?"

"But for the love of mercy do not let any harm come to him," and she flung herself upon her knees and raised her clasped hands to him.

"His life is in your hands."

"And you will help me save it?"

"You can do so."

"How? Tell me how. I will do any thing—give my own for him."

"Let us then be friends."

"I have never felt otherwise toward you."

"Give me your hand."

She laid her little trembling fingers gently within his proffered palm, and as he drew her nearer to him, he continued:

"Now a kiss, Olive."

"No, no," she murmured, drawing back.

"You are keeping them for your lover," he sneered. "Have you forgotten that I told you his life was in your hands?"

"No, but—"

"Will you not give me a kiss?"

"If you are a man you would not ask me, knowing what you do."

"Ay, knowing what I do," he replied, bitterly, and fast losing control of his temper. "This I do know, that you scorned my love and—"

"As God is my judge I was sorry to do so and—"

"As he is my judge you shall be sorry almost unto death that you ever did. But a kiss I will have."

"Oh! heaven, are you a man or—"

"Beast?" he said, finishing the sentence for her, with a mocking laugh, and he exerted his superior strength to draw her to him.

Her quickness baffled him. She tore loose, retreated as far as possible and buried her face in her lap. But it was in vain she did so. He lifted her up again—held her hands so that she was powerless, and forcing her to look in his face, continued:

"You must and shall kiss me."

"Never!"

"It is the first move toward friendship."

"Then we shall never be friends."

"Then you are cold-hearted toward Mayo."

"Cold-hearted? God alone knows how I love him."

"And will not give even a kiss to keep him from suffering?"

"He would scorn me—would have a right to do so if I should consent—did not battle for his honor as well as my own."

"But I love you just as well."

"It can not be. You have plotted my destruction."

"With love turned to hatred and vengeance for the moment, by black despair, I might have sought to destroy. Now I would save all."