“GIVE ME ’REESA!”
“Something must have happened to the girl. She was to have been here in one hour, and here I have waited two. It’s after midnight now. I’ll wait another ten minutes, and then I’ll go and see what’s up.”
The low sounds proceeded from a dark spot near three hundred yards from the mouth of the cave wherein we have just introduced the renowned Captain Jack to the reader, and the voice was that of Kit South.
Undiscovered, they had found their way—the scout and Artena—to the spot occupied by the former, and the girl spy had boldly proceeded to the lair of the Modoc tiger, for the purpose of luring him thence, that he might be kidnapped after the daring plan they had formed.
Artena, as the reader has heard her aver, was a Modoc.
Prior to the commencement of hostilities between the Indians and the Government, she was unknown to the blue-coated defenders of the latter; but when Donald McKay offered our General the services of his Warm Spring Indians, she came forth, and offered herself as a spy.
Her tribal relations to the Modoc chief was a poor recommendation in the eyes of Canby; but, upon the earnest solicitation of Cohoon, the Warm Spring scout, seconded by McKay, she was installed in the dangerous office of spy, and at once became of great value to the troops.
She persisted in calling herself a Warm Spring Indian, when all knew, from her features, that she was a full-blooded Modoc.
For weeks she had played a dangerous double role. Leaving Jack’s camp at the dead of night for the purpose, as she would tell that worthy, of gaining information concerning the movements of the army, she would find her way to Canby or Gillem’s head-quarters, and open her budget of news about the designs of the Modoc rebel.
It was Artena who proposed the kidnapping of Captain Jack, and this bold movement found a response in the breast of Kit South, who believed that, deprived of their chieftain, the Modocs would not hold out longer.
After a lapse of ten minutes, the scout rose to his feet and glided toward the cave, with whose labyrinths he had been familiar for years.
Artena’s protracted absence boded ill for her safety, and the giant scout proceeded with caution.
“The devils have caught ’Reesa and killed the old woman!” he grated, through clenched teeth, as he crawled over the lava rocks. “I never thought they would strike so high as Lost River; but there’s no telling how far a Modoc will go for a scalp. I’d like to get ’Reesa from ’em to-night, but guess I can’t. So—hello! here’s a hole! Wonder where it leads to?”
The scout had paused at the mouth of a dark corridor which led, seemingly, far into the bowels of the earth.
“Now let me study a minute,” he murmured. “There’s a black hole hyarabouts that leads over the cave where I s’pect Jack is. I’ve crawled it afore, and I ought to tell now whether this is the one or not.”
Then, for several moments, he busied himself with examining the rocks at the mouth of the corridor, when, satisfied that he was on the right trail, he drew his hunting-knife and advanced.
He had gained the inner portal of the black passage, when he became aware that he was followed.
Instantly he paused and listened.
Sure enough, an Indian was creeping after him.
“Curse your red skin,” he hissed, hugging the black wall, as, knife in hand, he awaited the foe. “I’ll settle your hash. A little further, my boy; a little further, if you please.”
Nearer and nearer came the Indian, in the Cimmerian gloom, and all at once the scout’s left hand shot outward, and luckily griped a crimson throat.
But a second later he relaxed the grasp, and whispered a name.
“Cohoon?”
“Kit,” came the reply.
“I knew ye by yer necklace of bear-claws, boy,” continued Kit, in a low tone. “By George! if it hadn’t been fur them, there’d be a dead Indian hereabouts. Where’ve ye been, Cohoon?”
“Spying all ’bout,” answered the savage. “Evan and Cohoon catch Mouseh; but he git ’way. He kick Cohoon ’way down over rocks, and Indian lay there long time.”
Kit South uttered an ejaculation more forcible than polite.
“Where’s Evan now?”
“That’s what Cohoon want to know.”
“You leave him with Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Been back to the place, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Any blood there?”
“No blood.”
“Funny, deuced funny,” said Kit, musingly. “I guess Jack got the best of him. Artena’s got into a fix also, I opine.”
Cohoon started violently, and in the darkness griped the scout’s knife arm.
“Modoc call Artena spy?” he asked.
“Don’t know; fear so,” and then in a low tone Kit narrated the kidnapping plot.
“Mouseh keep Artena for something,” said Cohoon, who appeared to take a great deal of interest in the squaw spy. “Was Kit going to hunt her?”
“Yes.”
“Then come. This black place look down into Mouseh’s cave, by ’m by.”
The route over which white and red crawled was fraught with dangers, for the subterranean portion of the Lava-Beds is honeycombed, and at any moment they were liable to be precipitated into some dark place from which escape might be impossible.
“I guess nobody will ’sturb our hosses,” said the scout. “We left them down by the Black Creek—that is, above the stream, on the bank.”
“Modocs all in caves,” said Cohoon. “If Warm Spring Indians find ’em, let ’em be, for they know who left ’em there.”
“But then— Hold, Cohoon, yonder’s a light, as I live.”
They came to an abrupt halt, and caught the glimmer of light far ahead.
“I can’t hear a word,” whispered the scout, after listening awhile. “Every thing’s as still as death. Mebbe the red devils hev left?”
Cohoon shook his head.
“Mouseh still in cave,” he said. “Crawl on, Kit.”
The scout moved forward again, and at length looked down into the Modocs’ cave.
“Now you red devil-slayer of the best General that ever drew a sword,” hissed the scout, forgetting, for a moment, his present position, errand, peril—every thing.
Captain Jack stood before him!
“I’ll end the Modoc war now. If we can’t kidnap you, by George, we can—”
He had thrust the muzzle of his Spencer through a perforation, and his eye dropped to the sights, when Cohoon’s hand covered the lock.
Kit drew back and looked at the Indian, who did not speak, but shook his head with a faint smile.
The light of the fire penetrating the chamber above the cave, fell upon the faces of the twain, and also upon their surroundings. Slowly Kit dropped the lock, and threw a look of thanks into Cohoon’s face.
Captain Jack was not alone.
Several other Indians occupied the cave. Where were Artena and Evan Harris? They were not to be seen.
Where, too, was ’Reesa South—the scout’s daughter?
It seemed that the Modocs were evacuating the present cave, as Gillem thought they would proceed to do, and that Jack and a few of his trustiest men, were the last to leave the stronghold. The two friends above kept their eyes fastened upon the red rebel, and his chiefs.
“If Artena is a spy, she shall die,” said Jack. “But Mouseh can not believe all that Baltimore Bob says. Artena has told him much about the blue-coats; he must have more proof of her treason than Bob’s voice. What say the chiefs?”
“I believe Baltimore Bob,” said one. “He must know. We have heard where he has been. Boston Charley votes for death.”
“And Hooker Jim?”
“Death to the traitress!”
Jack turned to the other chief—Scar-faced Charley.
There was a slight gleam of hope in his face. He hoped that the last chief would not pronounce for death.
Mechanically Jack turned and struck the lava wall twice with his hatchet.
The tread of many feet followed, and presently a dozen Indians joined the chiefs.
Artena, pinioned by strong red arms, walked in the van of the party, and near her, with his hands fastened to his side, strode Evan Norris, the young ranger, whose prisoner the redoubtable Jack himself had lately been.
The savage known as Baltimore Bob headed the band, and fastened his eyes upon the Modoc chief as he stepped into the light of the fire.
Jack’s gaze fell to the ground.
“Ask the chiefs,” he said, in a low tone. “Mouseh’s heart is sad.”
Bob turned to the trio of Indians, and his look was answered.
“Artena must die,” said Hooker Jim.
“When?”
“Now!”
“And this young white cur?”
“Is not worth talking about. Of course he dies with Artena.”
“Yes, he dies,” said Jack, starting up as if from a prolonged sleep. “Chiefs, do it quickly; then hasten to the deep cave. We must fight the blue-coats to-morrow. Do not torture Artena; but do as you wish with the white man. After all is over, lay her on the water that rushes under the ground.”
The chieftain glanced at the Squaw Spy and then stepped away.
The eye of Kit South followed him, and again the hammer of his trusty gun was gently pulled back.
“It may be my last chance,” he murmured, and the butt of the weapon struck his shoulder.
Cohoon did not see the movement; his fiery eye was regarding the scenes below.
All at once Captain Jack stooped, and Kit South heard him say:
“Too much for White Rose to see. Mouseh take her away.”
As he spoke, the Modoc lifted a girl from the semi-darkened portion of the cavern, and Kit lowered his gun, with a cry of surprise—a cry that startled the savages directly below them.
“’Reesa, by heavens!” he cried. “I never dreamed that that brown heap over yonder was my daughter. ’Reesa—Jack—Jack, drop my gal!”
Cohoon turned upon the scout with rising indignation, and reached forth to prevent the action which he saw was about to be performed.
But he was too late, for, rifle in hand, Kit South had leaped into the cave, and was bounding toward the Modoc chief!
“Give me ’Reesa!” he cried, and the next moment, before Captain Jack could comprehend the situation, the mad scout had snatched his child from his arms, and flung him to the ground!
Then the Indians who had started back when the scout suddenly dropped into their midst, recovered from their surprise, and rushed upon him.
“That’s right! come on!” cried Kit, presenting a revolver, which he thrust into their very faces. “I like to shoot dogs, always did; and here’s a chance perhaps to drop a dozen or so.”
But the foremost savages had paused and were looking fearfully into the muzzle of the leveled weapon.