



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.

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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 the
gale, there came no sound, nothing to tell of the presence or movements
of man more savage, more merciless than they.

"Snakes! but I can't be out of it!" muttered the scout, as once more
within their warm and cosy shanty they secured the door behind them.
"Smokestack Bill ain't the boy to be out of it over a matter of an
Indian yelp.  And he can tell a Sioux yelp from a Cheyenne yelp, and a
Kiowa yelp from a Rapaho yelp, with a store-full of Government
corn-sacks over his head, and the whole lot from a blasted wolfs yelp,
he can.  And at any distance, too."

"I think you _are_ out of it, Bill, all the same;" answered his
companion.  "If only that, on the face of things, no consideration of
scalps or plunder, or even she-captives, would tempt the reds to face
this little blow to-night."

"Well, well!  I don't say you're wrong, Vipan.  You've served your
Plainscraft to some purpose, you have.  But if what I heard wasn't the
war-whoop somewhere--I don't care how far--why then I shall begin to
believe in what the Sioux say about these here mountains."

"What do they say?"

"Why, they say these mountains are chock full of ghosts--spirits of
their chiefs and warriors who have been scalped after death, and are
kept snoopin' around here because they can't get into the Happy
Hunting-Grounds.  However, we're all right here, and 'live or dead, the
Sioux buck 'd have to reckon with a couple of Winchester rifles, who
tried to make us otherwise."

He who had been addressed as Vipan laughed good-humouredly, as he tossed
an armful of fat pine knots among the glowing logs, whence arose a blaze
that lit up the hut as though for some festivity.  And its glare affords
us an admirable opportunity for a closer inspection of these two.  The
scout was a specimen of the best type of Western man.  His rugged,
weather-tanned face was far from unhandsome--frankness, self-reliance,
staunchness to his friends, intrepidity toward foes, might all be read
there.  His thick russet beard was becoming shot with grey, but though
considerably on the wrong side of fifty, an observer would have credited
him with ten years to the good, for his broad, muscular frame was as
upright and elastic as if he were twenty-five.  His companion, who might
have been fifteen years his junior, was about as fine a type of
Anglo-Saxon manhood as could be met with in many a day's journey.  Of
tall, almost herculean, stature, he was without a suspicion of
clumsiness; quick, active, straight as a dart.  His features, regular as
those of a Greek-sculpture, were not, however, of a confidence-inspiring
nature, for their expression was cold and reticent, and the lower half
of his face was hidden in a magnificent golden beard, sweeping to his
belt.  The dress of both men was the regulation tunic and leggings of
dressed deerskin, of Indian manufacture, and profusely ornamented with
beadwork and fringes; that of Vipan being adorned with scalp-locks in
addition.

These two were bound together by the closest friendship, but there was
this difference between them.  Whereas everyone knew Smokestack Bill,
whether as friend or foe, from Monterey to the British line, who he was
and all about him, not a soul knew exactly who Rupert Vipan was, nor did
Rupert Vipan himself, by word or hint, evince the smallest disposition
to enlighten them.  That he was an Englishman was clear, his nationality
he could not conceal.  Not that he ever tried to, but on the other hand,
he made no sort of attempt at airing it.

This winter cabin was a substantial log affair, run up by the two men
with some degree of trouble and with an eye to comfort.  Built in a
hollow on the mountain face, it hung perched as an eyrie over a ravine
some thousands of feet in depth, in such wise that its occupants could
command every approach, and descry the advent of strangers, friendly or
equivocal, long before the latter could reach them.  Behind rose the
jagged, almost precipitous mountain in a serrated ridge, and
inaccessible from the other side; so that upon the whole the position
was about as safe as any position could be in that insecure region,
where every man took his rifle to bed with him, and slept with one eye
open even then.  The cabin was reared almost against the great trunk of
a stately pine, whose spreading boughs contributed in no slight degree
to its shelter.  Not many yards distant stood another log-hut, similar
in design and dimensions; this had been the habitation of a French
Canadian and his two Sioux squaws, but now stood deserted by its former
owners.

Vipan flung himself on a soft thick bearskin, took a glowing stick from
the fire, and pressed it against the bowl of a long Indian pipe.

"By Jove, Bill," he said, blowing out a great cloud.  "If this isn't the
true philosophy of life it's first cousin