Nat, The Trapper and Indian-Fighter

Toward noon of a pleasant June day, 18—, a man, mounted on a powerful animal of the mustang breed, was riding slowly over the plain, some distance south-east of the great South Pass.

His appearance was striking. In hight he was rather more than six feet, his legs and arms being long and lank in the extreme. His eyes were small, gray and piercing, and remarkably deep-set; his face rather thin and cadaverous, the lower part being covered with a scanty growth of grizzled beard. Add to these not very handsome features a wide, though good-natured looking mouth, and a nose of extraordinary length, and he presented a startling, not to say ludicrous, appearance.

He was dressed in a suit of dun-colored deer-skin; and a close-fitting coon-skin cap, from which dangled the tail, covered his head. A long rifle, which evidently had seen considerable service, rested across the saddle-bow, and a large buckhorn-handled knife peeped from the folds of his hunting-shirt. A powder-horn slung at one side, and a small tomahawk stuck in his belt, completed his outfit.

Such was the appearance of Nathan Rogers, well known throughout that region as Wild Nat, trapper and Indian-fighter.

As he rode slowly along, his eyes bent on the ground, a superficial observer would have pronounced him in a deep reverie; but, from the suspicious glance which he frequently threw about him, it was evident that he was on the look-out for any danger that might be near.

“Gittin’ purty near noon,” he said, at last, speaking aloud, as was his habit when alone—“purty near noon, an’ I sw’ar I’m gittin’ e’ena’most famished. I shall be a mere skileton, purty shortly, ef I don’t git a leetle something in the provender line. Guess I’ll make fur thet clump of timber, an’ brile a slice of antelope.”

He raised himself in his stirrups, and swept the plain with swift, piercing glances.

“Nothin’ in sight,” he muttered, dropping to his seat. “Nary an Injun tew be seen. Gittin’ mighty quiet, lately; hain’t seen one of the pesky critters in a week. Git up, Rocky.”

He turned his horse toward a small clump of trees about half a mile distant, and rode rapidly forward. As he neared the grove, his former appearance of carelessness gave place to one of intense watchfulness. His keen gray eyes roved restlessly along the edge of the timber; his movements were slow and wary—every motion being instinct with a caution that long habit had made second nature. When at the edge of the grove, he stopped to listen, rising once more in his stirrups to look about him.

“Nary livin’ thing here ’cept me an’ the squirrels,” he muttered, after a protracted survey of the premises. “So, Rocky,” with a pat on his horse’s head, “we’ll stop, an’ have a bite.”

He slipped to the ground, unfastened the saddle-girth, and left the horse to graze, and then, placing his rifle close at hand, built a fire beside a fallen trunk, and proceeded to cut some slices of meat, a large piece of which hung at his saddle-bow, and place them to broil on the coals.

He had nearly finished his repast, when he suddenly sprung to his feet, grasped his rifle, and turned, in an attitude of defense, toward the south. His quick ear had caught the sound of danger.

He stood for some minutes, rifle in hand, peering into the green, tangled woods before him, and listening intently. No sound met his ear save the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead, and the occasional note of some familiar wood-bird.

“I don’t like this silence,” he muttered, glancing uneasily around. “I’m sure that I heard suthin’, an’ silence in sich cases, ain’t a good symptom.”

He shifted his rifle to the other hand, and still keeping his eyes fixed on the thicket before him, began moving that way, making a wide detour, however, to accomplish his purpose.

As he was creeping noiselessly forward, a slight sound met his ear, and turning his head, he saw, above the top of a huge log, the hideously-painted face of an Indian. Springing to his feet, he was about to make a more decided movement, when a horrible chorus of yells filled the air, and instantly, from every side, save directly behind him, sprung a score of savages.

“Gallinippers!” ejaculated the trapper, “here’s a scrimmage on hand.”

He instantly raised his rifle and discharged both barrels into the painted host that was rapidly rushing upon him, and then turning, darted away, intending to reach his steed and make his escape. On reaching the spot, closely followed by his pursuers, he discovered that his horse was in the hands of a number of Indians, who had reached the place under cover of the timber.

He was now completely surrounded by the savages, who were pressing forward, eager to capture him. To the right, left and rear were the woods; before him the plain; on every side, the Indians. With a comprehensive glance at the case, the trapper came to a halt, turned toward the nearest of his foes, and swinging his rifle over his head, with a yell that would have shamed a Comanche warrior’s best effort, dashed forward. With one blow he felled a gigantic brave who stood before him; another, and a second went down; and then, as the panic-stricken rank broke, leaving a slight opening, he sprung through and darted away to the right, closely followed by the Indians, yelling at the top of their voices.

On he ran, over fallen trees and under branches, and close behind came his pursuers, straining every nerve to overtake him. So close were they, that the fleeing hunter had no opportunity to look for danger ahead, and before he was aware he ran directly into a small band of the enemy, who were evidently lying in ambush.

With shouts of triumph, the Indians gathered round, taunting him with his coming fate.

“The Long-knife shall die,” shouted a pompous chief, with a towering head-dress of eagle-feathers. “He will kill no more braves.”

“That remains tew be seen, ole smut-face,” retorted the trapper. “I ’spect ter hev the pleasure of scalpin’ ye yit.”

The Indian glared at him with a look of ferocity and rage, which was intensified by the cool, mocking smile with which the prisoner regarded him.

“What yer goin’ ter do with me?” asked Wild Nat, as he saw them preparing to move.

“Long-knife will see. He shall die,” was the reply.

He was placed on a horse, his hands tied behind him, his feet lashed together, and surrounded by his captors on every side. The Indians then began moving away to the west.

“Blast it all,” growled the trapper to himself, “this is a purty fix tew be in. I’d like tew know how in thunder they got so clus ’ithout my seein’ ’em. I know they wasn’t—hello! that explains it!”

The incensed trapper gazed about in bewilderment. Directly on the left was a narrow, swale-like hollow, which was completely concealed by the tall grass of the plain, until directly upon it.

“Thar’s whar ye skulked, is it, ole leather-chops?” he exclaimed. “Thought ye’s smart, didn’t yer? I’d like tew snatch ye all bald-headed.

“How in thunder did it happen that I never see that place afore?” he continued to himself. “I sw’ar, I thought I’d tramped over every inch of plain about here. No use in growlin’; but if I ever git away, I’ll bet they’ll wish they’d died when they war young!”

The Indians traveled steadily forward, and about the middle of the afternoon, reached a high cliff in the Rocky Mountains, at the base of which they halted, and began making some preparations that puzzled Wild Nat considerably. He was not long kept in doubt as to their intentions.

The cliff shot up perpendicularly, a distance of about ninety feet, facing the east. The whole face was smooth, without niche or seam, with the exception of one spot. This was a narrow, shelf-like ledge, about thirty feet from the top, some three yards in length and about one in breadth.

As the trapper was looking at the precipice, with which he was quite familiar, the pompous chief before mentioned accosted him:

“Does Long-knife behold? The ledge shall be his grave! He will thirst, but there will be no water; he will hunger, but there will be no food. Below him, the birds will fly, the antelope will jump, and the buffalo graze, but it will be nothing to him. Long-knife will not be able to reach them!”

Wild Nat looked at him, at first puzzled; but, as the full meaning of his words broke upon him, his heart sunk. It would, indeed, be a fearful death!

But not to his captors would he show fear.

“Kalkerlate tew set me up thar, eh?” he inquired, in so cool a tone that the chief stared. “Be a splendid place to take a look at the country. Guess I’ll make a map on’t while I’m thar.”

“Long-knife sneers,” said the Indian. “He will soon see that the Wolf speaks truth.”

“How ye goin’ tew h’ist me up thar?” queried Wild Nat.