The White Squaw

“Yes, Nelatu, he’s a friend o’ this ole coon, and one that’ll prove himself so, too, in givin’ you skunks as took me a deal more nor you bargained for.”

“Nelatu is not here.”

“Not here? Why, didn’t you tell me just now that this war his father’s town?”

“I did; but Nelatu is not here.”

“Not now, perhaps; but I s’pose he’ll be here?”

“He will not return for weeks.”

Carrol’s countenance fell.

“Then, dog-gone yur skin, lead on! I throw up the pack of cards now that the trump’s out of ’em. It’s my luck, and it’s the darndest luck I ever seed; there’s no standin’ agin it. I s’pose I must give in.”

Without another word he followed his guards.

They entered the council chamber, where the assembled warriors awaited them.

With his foot upon the threshold, his manner entirely changed from the light, jeering hilarity he had exhibited to that of a calm and dignified bearing.

He saw in an instant that he was foredoomed.

The stern expression of his judges told him as much.

The mock ceremonial of examination was proceeded with, and a vain attempt made to extract from him intelligence of the movements of the whites, especially of the numbers and disposition of the Government troops, some of whom had by this time arrived in the peninsula.

His disdainful refusal to betray his own race did him no service.

True, he was already sentenced to die, but the manner of his death might inflict horror on him who had no fear of dying.

Though the questions were skilfully put to him, the old hunter saw through them all.

He did not, indeed, possess much knowledge of the military invasion; but had he been in the secret of the commanding officer himself, he could not have been more reticent in his replies.

Utterly foiled in their questions, the warriors played their last card, and with threats of the most terrible tortures endeavoured to wring from his fears what his honour would not reveal.

Vain effort on their part.

Cris did, indeed, wince when they first spoke of torture; but, recovering himself, he became more proudly defiant than before.

“Ye may shake my old body with rackin’ pains. I know you’ve got devil’s inventions, and I don’t deny but they’re awful; but there’s somethin’ about me that ye can’t make tremble, not if all the imps o’ hell war yer slaves – that’s my soul. It’ll come out of yer fiery ordeal as calm as it is now; and with its last thoughts it’ll despise and dare ye! Cris Carrol arn’t bin backwoods hunter for a matter goin’ on forty year to be skeart at burnin’ sticks or hot lead; and he’ll die as he has lived, an honest man!”

A mingled murmur of admiration and anger ran through the assembled crowd, and it was evident that many of the warriors would have given their consent to his being set free.

There is something about TRUE courage which extorts admiration even from an enemy.

A hurried consultation took place among the head men in council.

It was speedily over, and the oldest of their number rose and pronounced sentence against the prisoner.

It was death by burning at the stake!

Cris Carrol was not surprised on hearing it.

The sentence had already lost half of its terror. He had made up his mind that this would be his doom.

Only one word of response came from his lips —

“When?”

“To-morrow!” replied he who had pronounced judgment.

Without bestowing a glance upon those who had thus fixed the limit of his earthly career, the hunter strode from the council chamber with calm and measured steps.

As he passed out the crowd made way for him, and many of the faces expressed admiration – some even pity.

The stoic bravery of the Indian is marvellous, and for him death has no terrors. With them it is a sort of fatalism.

What they do not dread themselves, they make but light of in others.

Por all that they have the highest admiration for a man who dares meet death calmly.

In their eyes the white captive had assumed all the importance of a great warrior.

Yet was he an enemy – one of the race with whom they were at war – therefore he must die.

Thus strangely do civilisation and barbarism meet on common ground.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Sleeping Draught

Cris Carrol’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once more found himself alone in his prison.

He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the morrow he must die; for it was a death such as even a brave man might not meet bravely, but a lingering death by torture.

The hunter knew what this meant.

“A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself, “it’s into yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in your vitals there’s an end on it; but to stand up to be prodded with burning sticks, requires philosophy a’most as much as this hyar chile have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on – that it won’t. But I’ll be all-fired eternally if them fellows shall know how it hurts Cris Carrol! So let ’em do their worst, dura ’em!”

After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to make himself comfortable, by laying his blanket on the bare ground and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay within reach.

As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It was to knock his guard’s brains out and make a dash for liberty. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that the attempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.

A disinclination to shed blood uselessly decided him, and he lay down composedly after lighting his pipe.

For some time he ruminated on his condition, puffing curls of smoke into the air, and watching them as they disappeared.