



Produced by Lynn Ratcliffe





THE LAST OF THE CHIEFS
A Story of the Great Sioux War

by Joseph A. Altsheler


Contents

I--The Train
II--King Bison
III--The Pass
IV--Treasure-Trove
V--The Lost Valley
VI--Castle Howard
VII--An Animal Progression
VIII--The Trap Makers
IX--The Timber Wolves
X--Dick Goes Scouting
XI--The Terrible Pursuit
XII--The Fight with Nature
XIII--Albert's Victory
XIV--Prisoners
XV--The Indian Village
XVI--The Gathering of the Sioux
XVII--Great Sun Dance
XVIII--The Circle of Death
XIX--A Happy Meeting
XX--Bright Sun's Good-by




Chapter I
The Train

The boy in the third wagon was suffering from exhaustion.  The
days and days of walking over the rolling prairie, under a brassy
sun, the hard food of the train, and the short hours of rest, had
put too severe a trial upon his delicate frame. Now, as he lay
against the sacks and boxes that had been drawn up to form a sort
of couch for him, his breath came in short gasps, and his face
was very pale. His brother, older, and stronger by far, who
walked at the wheel, regarded him with a look in which affection
and intense anxiety were mingled. It was not a time and place in
which one could afford to be ill.

Richard and Albert Howard were bound together by the strongest of
brotherly ties. Richard had inherited his father's bigness and
powerful constitution, Albert his mother's slenderness and
fragility. But it was the mother who lived the longer, although
even she did not attain middle age, and her last words to her
older son were: "Richard, take care of Albert." He had promised,
and now was thinking how he could keep the promise.

It was a terrible problem that confronted Richard Howard.  He
felt no fear on his own account. A boy in years, he was a man in
the ability to care for himself, wherever he might be. In a
boyhood spent on an Illinois farm, where the prairies <DW72> up to
the forest, he had learned the ways of wood and field, and was
full of courage, strength, and resource.

But Albert was different. He had not thrived in the moist air of
the great valley. Tall enough he was, but the width of chest and
thickness of bone were lacking.  Noticing this, the idea of going
to California had come to the older brother. The great gold days
had passed years since, but it was still a land of enchantment to
the youth of the older states, and the long journey in the high,
dry air of the plains would be good for Albert.  There was
nothing to keep them back. They had no property save a little
money--enough for their equipment, and a few dollars over to
live on in California until they could get work.

To decide was to start, and here they were in the middle of the
vast country that rolled away west of the Missouri, known but
little, and full of dangers. The journey had been much harder
than the older boy had expected. The days stretched out, the
weeks trailed away, and still the plains rolled before them.

The summer had been of the hottest, and the heated earth gave
back the glare until the air quivered in torrid waves. Richard
had drawn back the cover of the wagon that his brother might
breathe the air, but he replaced it now to protect him from the
overpowering beams.  Once more he anxiously studied the country,
but it gave him little hope.  The green of the grass was gone,
and most of the grass with it.  The brown undulations swept away
from horizon to horizon, treeless, waterless, and bare.  In all
that vast desolation there was nothing save the tired and dusty
train at the very center of it.

"Anything in sight, Dick?" asked Albert, who had followed his
brother's questioning look.

Dick shook his head.

"Nothing, Al," he replied.

"I wish we'd come to a grove," said the sick boy.

He longed, as do all those who are born in the hills, for the
sight of trees and clear, running water.

"I was thinking, Dick," he resumed in short, gasping tones, "that
it would be well for us, just as the evening was coming on, to go
over a swell and ride right into a forest of big oaks and maples,
with the finest little creek that you ever saw running through
the middle of it.  It would be pleasant and shady there.  Leaves
would be lying about, the water would be cold, and maybe we'd see
elk coming down to drink."

"Perhaps we'll have such luck, Al," said Dick, although his tone
showed no such hope.  But he added, assuming a cheerful manner:
"This can't go on forever; we'll be reaching the mountains soon,
and then you'll get well."

"How's that brother of yours?  No better, I see, and he's got to
ride all the time now, making more load for the animals."

It was Sam Conway, the leader of the train, who spoke, a rough
man of middle age, for whom both Dick and Albert had acquired a
deep dislike.  Dick flushed through his tan at the hard words.

"If he's sick he had the right to ride," he replied sharply.
"We've paid our share for this trip and maybe a little more.
You know that."

Conway gave him an ugly look, but Dick stood up straight and
strong, and met him eye for eye.  He was aware of their rights
and he meant to defend them.  Conway, confronted by a dauntless
spirit, turned away, muttering in a surly fashion:

"We didn't bargain to take corpses across the plains."

Fortunately, the boy in the wagon did not hear him, and, though
his eyes flashed ominously, Dick said nothing.  It was not a time
for quarreling, but it was often hard to restrain one's temper.
He had realized, soon after the start, when it was too late to
withdraw, that the train was not a good one.  It was made up
mostly of men.  There were no children, and the few women, like
the men, were coarse and rough.  Turbulent scenes had occurred,
but Dick and Albert kept aloof, steadily minding their own
business.

"What did Conway say?" asked Albert, after the man had gone.

"Nothing of any importance.  He was merely growling as usual.  He
likes to make himself disagreeable.  I never saw another man who
got as much enjoyment out of that sort of thing."

Albert said nothing more, but closed his eyes.  The canvas cover
protected him from the glare of the sun, but seemed to hold the
heat within it.  Drops of perspiration stood on his face, and
Dick longed for the mountains, for his brother's sake.

All the train fell into a sullen silence, and no sound was heard
but the unsteady rumble of the wheels, the creak of an ungreased
axle, and the occasional crack of a whip.  Clouds of dust arose
and were whipped by the stray winds into the faces of the
travelers, the fine particles burning like hot ashes.  The train
moved slowly and heavily, as if it dragged a wounded length over
the hard ground.

Dick Howard kept his position by the side of the wagon in which
his brother lay.  He did not intend that Albert should hear
bitter words leveled at his weakness, and he knew that his own
presence was a deterrent.  The strong figures and dauntless port
of the older youth inspired respect.  Moreover, he carried over
his shoulder a repeating rifle of the latest pattern, and his
belt was full of cartridges.  He and Albert had been particular
about their arms.  It was a necessity.  The plains and the
mountains were subject to all the dangers of Indian warfare, and
they had taken a natural youthful pride in buying the finest of
weapons.

The hot dust burned Dick Howard's face and crept into his eyes
and throat.  His tongue lay dry in his mouth.  He might have
ridden in one of the wagons, too, had he chosen.  As he truly
said, he and Albert had paid their full share, and in the labor
of the trail, he was more efficient than anybody else in the
train.  But his pride had been touched by Conway's words.  He
would not ride, nor would he show any signs of weakness.  He
strode on by the side of the wagon, head erect, his step firm and
springy.

The sun crept slowly down the brassy arch of the heavens, and the
glare grew less blinding.  The heat abated, but Albert Howard,
who had fallen asleep, slept on.  His brother drew a blanket over
him, knowing that he could not afford to catch cold, and breathed
the cooler air himself, with thankfulness.  Conway came back
again, and was scarcely less gruff than before, although he said
nothing about Albert.

"Bright Sun says than in another day or two we'll be seeing the
mountains," he vouchsafed; "and I'll be glad of it, because then
we'll be coming to water and game."

"I'd like to be seeing them now," responded Dick; "but do you
believe everything that Bright Sun says?"

"Of course I do.  Hasn't he brought us along all right?  What are
you driving at?"

His voice rose to a challenging tone, in full accordance with the
nature of the man, whenever anyone disagreed with him, but Dick
Howard took not the least fear.

"I don't altogether like Bright Sun," he replied.  "Just why, I
can't say, but the fact remains that I don't like him.  It
doesn't seem natural for an Indian to be so fond of white people,
and to prefer another race to his own."

Conway laughed harshly.

"That shows how much you know," he said.  "Bright Sun is smart,
smarter than a steel trap.  He knows that the day of the red is
passing, and he's going to train with the white.  What's the use
of being on the losing side?  It's what I say, and it's what
Bright Sun thinks."

The man's manner was gross and materialistic, so repellent that
Dick would have turned away, but at that moment Bright Sun
himself approached.  Dick regarded him, as always, with the
keenest interest and curiosity mixed with some suspicion.  Yet
almost anyone would have been reassured by the appearance of
Bright Sun.  He was a splendid specimen of the Indian, although
in white garb, even to the soft felt hat shading his face.  But
he could never have been taken for a white man.  His hair was
thick, black, and coarse, his skin of the red man's typical
coppery tint, and his cheek bones high and sharp.  His lean but
sinewy and powerful figure rose two inches above six feet.  There
was an air about him, too, that told of strength other than that
of the body.  Guide he was, but leader he looked.

"Say, Bright Sun," exclaimed Conway coarsely, "Dick Howard here
thinks you're too friendly with the whites.  It don't seem
natural to him that one of your color should consort so freely
with us."

Dick's face flushed through the brown, and he shot an angry
glance at Conway, but Bright Sun did not seem to be offended.

"Why not?" he asked in perfect English.  "I was educated in a
mission school.  I have been with white people most of my life, I
have read your books, I know your civilization, and I like it."

"There now!" exclaimed Conway triumphantly.  "Ain't that an
answer for you?  I tell you what, Bright Sun, I'm for you, I
believe in you, and if anybody can take us through all right to
California, you're the man."

"It is my task and I will accomplish it," said Bright Sun in the
precise English he had learned at the mission school.

His eyes met Dick's for a moment, and the boy saw there a flash
that might mean many things--defiance, primeval force, and the
quality that plans and does.  But the flash was gone in an
instant, like a dying spark, and Bright Sun turned away.  Conway
also left, but Dick's gaze followed the Indian.

He did not know Bright Sun's tribe.  He had heard that he was a
Sioux, also that he was a Crow, and a third report credited him
with being a Cheyenne.  As he never painted his face, dressed
like a white man, and did not talk of himself and his people, the
curious were free to surmise as they chose.  But Dick was sure of
one thing: Bright Sun was a man of power.  It was not a matter of
surmise, he felt it instinctively.

The tall figure of the Indian was lost among the wagons, and Dick
turned his attention to the trail.  The cooling waves continued
to roll up, as the west reddened into a brilliant sunset.  Great
bars of crimson, then of gold, and the shades in between, piled
above one another on the horizon.  The plains lost their brown,
and gleamed in wonderful shimmering tints.  The great desolate
world became beautiful.

The train stopped with a rumble, a creak, and a lurch, and the
men began to unharness the animals.  Albert awoke with a start
and sat up in the wagon.

"Night and the camp, Al," said Dick cheerfully; "feel better,
don't you?

"Yes, I do," replied Albert, as a faint color came into his face.

"Thought the rest and the coolness would brace you up," continued
Dick in the same cheerful tone.

Albert, a tall, emaciated boy with a face of great refinement and
delicacy, climbed out of the wagon and looked about.  Dick busied
himself with the work of making camp, letting Albert give what
help he could.

But Dick always undertook to do enough for two--his brother and
himself--and he really did enough for three.  No other was so
swift and skillful at taking the gear off horse or mule, nor was
there a stronger or readier arm at the wheel when it was
necessary to complete the circle of wagons that they nightly
made.  When this was done, he went out on the prairie in search
of buffalo chips for the fire, which he was fortunate enough to
find without any trouble.

Before returning with his burden, Dick stood a few moments
looking back at the camp.  The dusk had fully come, but the fires
were not yet lighted, and he saw only the shadowy forms of the
wagons and flitting figures about them.  But much talked reached
his ears, most of it coarse and rough, with a liberal sprinkling
of oaths.  Dick sighed.  His regret was keener than ever that
Albert and he were in such company.  Then he looked the other
way out upon the fathomless plains, where the night had gathered,
and the wind was moaning among the swells.  The air was now chill
enough to make him shiver, and he gazed with certain awe into the
black depths.  The camp, even with all its coarseness and
roughness, was better, and he walked swiftly back with his load
of fuel.

They built a dozen fires within the circle of the wagons, and
again Dick was the most active and industrious of them all, doing
his share, Albert's, and something besides.  When the fires were
lighted they burned rapidly and merrily, sending up great tongues
of red or yellow flame, which shed a flickering light over
wagons, animals, and men.  A pleasant heat was suffused and Dick
began to cook supper for Albert and himself, bringing it from the
wagon in which his brother and he had a share.  He fried bacon
and strips of dried beef, boiled coffee, and warmed slices of
bread over the coals.

He saw with intense pleasure that Albert ate with a better
appetite than he had shown for days.  As for himself, he was as
hungry as a horse--he always was on this great journey--and
since there was plenty, he ate long, and was happy.

Dick went to the wagon, and returned with a heavy cloak, which he
threw over Albert's shoulders.

"The night's getting colder," he said, "and you mustn't take any
risks, Al.  There's one trouble about a camp fire in the open--your
face can burn while your back freezes."

Content fell over the camp.  Even rough men of savage instincts
are willing to lie quiet when they are warm and well fed.  Jokes,
coarse but invariably