



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Golden Face
A Tale of the Wild West
By Bertram Mitford
Published by Trischler and Company, London.
This edition dated 1892.
Golden Face, by Bertram Mitford.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
GOLDEN FACE, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.



PREFACE.

An impression prevails in this country that for many years past the Red
men of the American Continent have represented a subdued and generally
deteriorated race.  No idea can be more erroneous.  Debased, to a
certain extent, they may have become, thanks to drink and other
"blessings" of civilisation; but that the warrior-spirit, imbuing at any
rate the more powerful tribes, is crushed, or that a semi-civilising
process has availed to render them other than formidable and dangerous
foes, let the stirring annals of Western frontier colonisation for the
last half-century in general, and the Sioux rising of barely a year ago
in particular, speak for themselves.

This work is a story--not a history.  Where matters historical have been
handled at all the Author has striven to touch them as lightly as
possible, emphatically recognising that when differences arise between a
civilised Power and barbarous races dwelling within or beyond its
borders, there is invariably much to be said on both sides.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE WINTER CABIN.

"Snakes! if that ain't the war-whoop, why then old Smokestack Bill never
had to keep a bright lookout after his hair."

Both inmates of the log cabin exchanged a meaning glance.  Other
movement made they none, save that each man extended an arm and reached
down his Winchester rifle, which lay all ready to his hand on the heap
of skins against which they were leaning.  Within, the firelight glowed
luridly on the burnished barrels of the weapons, hardly penetrating the
gloomy corners of the hut.  Without, the wild shrieking of the wind and
the swish and sough of pine branches furiously tossing to the eddying
gusts.

"Surely not," was the reply, after a moment of attentive listening.
"None of the reds would be abroad on such a night as this, let alone a
war-party.  Why they are no fonder of the cold than we, and to-night we
are in for something tall in the way of blizzards."

"Well, it's a sight far down that I heard it," went on the scout,
shaking his head.  "Whatever the night is up here, it may be as mild as
milk-punch down on the plain.  There's scalping going forward
somewhere--mind me."

"If so, it's far enough away.  I must own to having heard nothing at
all."

For all answer the scout rose to his feet, placed a rough screen of
antelope hide in front of the fire, and, cautiously opening the door,
peered forth into the night.  A whirl of keen, biting wind, fraught with
particles of frozen snow which stung the face like quail-shot, swept
round the hut, filling it with smoke from the smouldering pine-logs;
then both men stepped outside, closing the door behind them.

No, assuredly no man, red or white, would willingly be abroad that
night.  The icy blast, to which exposure--benighted on the open plain--
meant, to the inexperienced, certain death, was increasing in violence,
and even in the sheltered spot where the two men stood it was hardly
bearable for many minutes at a time.  The night, though tempestuous, was
not blackly dark, and now and again as the snow-scud scattered wildly
before the wind, the mountain side opposite would stand unveiled; each
tall crag towering up, a threatening fantastic shape, its rocky front
dark against the driven whiteness of its base.  And mingling with the
roaring of the great pines and the occasional thunder of masses of snow
dislodged from their boughs would be borne to the listeners' ears, in
eerie chorus, the weird dismal howling of wolves.  It was a scene of
indescribable wildness and desolation, that upon which these two looked
forth from their winter cabin in the lonely heart of the Black Hills.

But, beyond the gruesome cry of ravening beasts and the shriek of