Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys

"I'm here," came the reply in a half-smothered voice. "I'm tied up fast. How are you? What's happened?"

"I don't know, but I'm tied up fast too," answered Elbridge, by a violent effort turning over and raising himself to a sitting posture in spite of his bound hands.

The sight that met his eyes was alarming enough. A dozen armed red-skins were in possession of their camp; they had seized the two young men's guns, and were eagerly ransacking the rest of their belongings in search of plunder. A bunch of Indian ponies stood a little way off. Tom Winthrop was lying bound upon the ground close by.

"I never dreamed of this," said Elbridge with a groan. "The Longmont people said" – Longmont was the little town where they had fitted themselves out for their mountain trip – "that no hostile Indians ever came up into these mountains, and that the Utes were always friendly, didn't they?"

"Yes," said Tom, turning stiffly towards his comrade; "I wonder who these wretches can be. Hi there, amigo," he continued to an Indian that stood guard over them with a pistol; "say, you Ute? you Ute?"

The redskin nodded; apparently he understood the question.

"Ute, Colorow; Colorow, Ute," he ejaculated, grunting out a string of unintelligible Indian words as well.

"Colorow!" broke in Elbridge. "Of course. Don't you remember, Tom, that old fellow in the store at Longmont who was talking about the different Indians, and said that he wouldn't trust some of the Utes very far? Don't you remember he said there was a chief called Colorow who would bear watching; that his band of Utes was ripe for mischief?"

"What do you imagine they'll do to us?" asked his friend. "They've robbed our camp, but they haven't tried to kill us. Do you think they mean to torture us, and that that's why they don't kill us at once?"

The tortures inflicted by Indians on their captives were before his mind. These young men from Harvard were new to the west, and had only come out for a summer holiday; but the cruelty of savage Indians was a familiar idea to them, and they shuddered at the thoughts of it.

"Let's ask them what they want of us," said Elbridge; "it may be that we've been trespassing on what they consider sacred territory, or something of that sort. We might perhaps be able to satisfy them somehow if we could make them understand."

But the Indians could not or would not talk, and all attempts to parley were vain; ponies were brought, and they were forced to mount and be led away wherever their captors chose.

All day long they rode; and at evening, tired and stiff from their bonds and the rough mountain ride, they reached the lodges of a large band of insurgent Utes. Here they were rudely pulled from their horses and thrown on the ground. An eager debate ensued as the captors proudly exhibited their prisoners, and the helpless pair, though they could not understand a word, needed no interpreter to reveal the subject. Close by stood two long, upright sticks, and between them there dangled a small hoop of willow, across which was stretched a round piece of what seemed to be parchment, kept tight and flat by a neat buckskin lacing. While they were looking at this, a puff of wind caught the hoop and caused it to spin slowly round. The side of it now revealed to view was covered with a bushy mat of short, red, curly hair, and just off the centre a white streak across it showed up as a parting.

Elbridge looked inquiringly at his friend. He saw Tom's face become a strange ashy grey. His lips were almost bloodless and seemed to move stiffly as he said in a thick voice, "That thing must be a scalp. It's fresh, and it's a white man's."

"Yes, young man, that's a nice scalp, and yours'll look pretty beside it," burst in a harsh, rasping voice close behind them in tones that made them shiver.

"An American here among these Indians!" thought Elbridge; "why, he must be a renegade, another Simon Girty."

With an effort he twisted his head round to see who had startled them so. No white man was visible to his eye, but right above him towered a huge Indian, a head and shoulders taller than the other Utes. He wore a cruel face of mockery, as he opened his great mouth to speak. "You'll have a high old time, won't you, when you're tied to the stake, and the fire begins to tickle up your toes." His English was perfect.

"Who are you, in the name of goodness?" cried Elbridge, "and what are we prisoners for?"

"You don't know me, eh, Tenderfoot?" was the contemptuous reply. "I'm Big John, John St. Elmo. My father was old Colonel St. Elmo that St. Elmo's Fork's called after. Oh yes, you needn't be surprised at my speaking English. Why, I was years at school in St. Louis with the Christian Brothers. You bet, folks all know me on the frontier now, though."

This was no empty boast. He was indeed well known, far too well known, on the frontier. Big John, the half-breed son of the old French fur-trader, St. Elmo, was as entirely an Indian in his nature as in his features, though his superior intelligence as well as his gigantic frame bore witness to the white blood that flowed in his veins. His cruelty and his cunning were known far and wide.

He stood over his victims for long, boasting of his own black deeds in the past, and threatening them with the torture for to-morrow. Then they were shoved into a lodge, a guard set over them, and they were left to get such rest as they might.

Darkness fell, and they lay silent and sleepless, stupefied with pain and misery, until Elbridge rolled himself close to his comrade and began in a low voice, —

"Tom, do you think there is any chance for us?"

"I can't see any whatever," replied Winthrop.

"This fellow, Big John, seems to me our only hope," said Elbridge. "At least he knows something. He could understand us if we were to offer him a ransom. That's our best lookout now. Escape is quite out of the question. Here we are, tied and watched, and even if we could slip away we should only get lost in these mountains, and be caught again directly. We must try and talk him into letting us go, somehow."

The hours dragged on wearily, till just before dawn they heard a sudden trampling of horses, followed by loud talking among the red men. Presently Big John rushed into the lodge and burst out, —

"The governor's sent the soldiers from Fort Russell, and it's got to be stopped."

He was furiously excited. Was he come to butcher his captives on the spot, or what did he intend?

"We're ready to make peace if the governor wants peace," he cried. "We've driven every white man out of our country already, and we won't have the soldiers coming into it. But if he'll call them back, we'll treat."

"When did all this begin?" inquired Elbridge eagerly.

"Five days back," said John. "Oh, we've made the Americans pretty sick. In five days we've cleared the settlers all out of our country. But we won't stand the soldiers coming now."

"Look here, John," exclaimed Elbridge, assuming a friendliness that he was far from feeling; "if you want to let the governor know that you're willing to make peace, why not let us go and tell him? That's your safest way to let him know."

"And how am I going to get his answer if I do?" asked Big John.

"Why," replied Elbridge promptly, "of course he'll send some one to tell you when and where to meet him."

"He'll none send," briefly interjected the half-breed. He paused a moment, revolving plans in his mind. "Look here; I don't mind doing this. One of you go and take my message to the governor, and I'll keep t'other here till he gets back with the answer. If he don't come, then – " And with an expressive pantomime he indicated the torture and the scalping-knife. Vainly they urged him to send both; he was obdurate.

"We pledge our honour to return," cried Elbridge Harland. "Be it peace or war, we'll come back and give ourselves up to you."

"What's an American's honour worth?" retorted the half-breed contemptuously. "I don't do business that way. One of you can go. There's my terms; take 'em or leave 'em."

"Then you must go, Tom," began Elbridge, but Big John cut him short.

"You stay here," said their captor, indicating Tom, "and you go," pointing to Elbridge; "but first you give me your word of honour to come back here in three days and surrender, whatever the governor says, and swear you won't tell where we are or lead any one here."

"I give it then," said Elbridge; and turning to his companion, "Tom," cried he, "don't despair. If it be possible, I'll save you."

Eighteen hours later he stood, with an Indian guide beside him, upon a summit whence they looked into a dark valley where fires were glowing.

"Americans camp there," said the guide, pointing to the distant fires. "You go talk governor one sun. When moon there," and he pointed to the eastern sky, "you come here find me." And thus Elbridge left him.

In two hours he reached the watch-fires of a company of Colorado volunteers, hastily called out to resist the Ute outbreak. He learned that the governor of the state was actually on the spot. "You better believe," said the guard who conducted him to the governor's quarters, "he ain't no slouch. He's a western man, he is. You don't find Governor Bates at home in Denver when there's a Ute war on. It's 'headquarters in the saddle' with him every time."

Elbridge was soon introduced to him, and told his story.

"Very rough on you and your companion, Mr. Harland," said the governor sympathetically, when Elbridge had finished. "I'm sorry for you both, but for Mr. Winthrop especially. It's too bad you should have just dropped in for such a reception as this in our Centennial State this particular year. We reckon to give eastern tourists a good time here, and we're particularly pleased to welcome to the Rockies cultured gentlemen from good old Harvard that can appreciate the splendour of our mountain scenery. Now here's my idea. Mr. Winthrop's one solitary chance is for you to lead my volunteers right to where these Indians are, so that we can surround 'em, and it's just possible we may succeed in rescuing him alive."

"But," said Elbridge astonished, "I have just told you how I passed my word to return and put myself in their hands again, and show no one where they are."

"Rubbish," said Governor Bates – "positive rubbish, my dear sir. Indians don't keep faith with us, so we're not bound to do it with them. You bring us to them, and we'll fix things."

"I couldn't do it," said Elbridge quickly, his colour rising; "I passed my word, and I must go back alone."

"That you'll not do," said the governor, "if I have any authority here. I'll have to put you under arrest if you try," and with a forced laugh he added, "We can't have you communicating with enemies of the United States, you know."

And rather than yield, Elbridge actually passed the day under honourable arrest at the governor's quarters. He remained proof both against ridicule and upbraiding.