A PRAIRIE DUEL.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1157, 4 May 1894, Page 11

A PRAIRIE DUEL.

In the tepee sat Pretty Hair and the scout whose capture, had cost three Indian lives. He lay on a bearskin, placidly puffing the thin tobacco leaf which Pretty Hair had rolled for him. Pretty Hair bent her great, glorious brown eyes on his pale, handsome face, but the young fellow was thinking of his comrades at Fort William, little dreaming of the passion he had awakened in his companion’s dusky breast. Three weeks before tho Arapahoes had attacked a waggon-train under an escort of United States cavalry. Blue Jem, the advance scout, had scented danger ahead, but reported that the force of hostile Indians was not largo enough to attack them. When the escort reached a bend in the ravine the valley suddenly swarmed with shrieking, ferocious red men. The troops were in a trap, from which there was no escape. ' " Only ono white man came out alive —this was Blue Jem. There was a long score against him, which even his scalp would not wipe out. Bleeding from a dozen wounds, he was Lashed to his hor3e and led by White Feather into the camp. He wan-ed to die, but Pretty Hair, fascinated by *his white skin and his blue eyes, dragged him back from tho verge of eternity. She was the daughter of Holc-in-the-Head, who, next to tho chief, was tho most powerful man in the tribe. Shr* wrestled with death for his life. But Bluo Jem didn’t thank her—ho knew that tho days of torture were not far off. He little thought, however, of the plan Pretty Hair was weaving for his sake. That very day Holc-in-tlie-Head had promised the white man’s life if he would marry his daughter and become one of the tribe.

“White man stay with Pretty Hair?” the maiden was saying, as she swept her beautiful hair on ono side and looked earnestly into his face. Blue Jem hesitated. Then he shut his eyes and nodded his head. After all, it would be preferable to the stake. Pretty Hair crept towards him and rubbed her brown, soft face on his cheek. As she did so, a stream of sunshine burst into the tepee, and they saw White Feather standing before them. • , That night White Feather sat outside his wigwam thinking deeply. There was jealousy in his heart, malignant hatred in his eyes. In fancy he saw Pretty Hair — the maiden for whom he had braved the sabres of his enemies—rubbing her beautiful cheek on the face of the man he An hour later White Feather crossed to the scout’s tent. The Indian gentry was

sleeping. White Feather crept iil tlio tepee arid aWakeUed Blito Jem from his heavy sleep. ... , , . “ White man escape!” lio muttered excitedly.. Escape ! Blue Jem opened wide his eyes. Did ho hear aright ? Yes, tliero was White Foathor urging him to fly. He must make up his mind at once. In another hour daylight would be here. He peered into tho darkness. His old horse was tethered to a tree outside. Ho hesitated a momont. Ho saw Pretty Hair’s smiling face, and felt her smooth cheek against his own. She loved him and had saved his life.

“ Bah!” and ho pushed his sombrero firmly on his head and threw himself into tho saddle. “ Break faith with an Indian girl. P’sli! Treachery runs in their blood. Why think of my own ?” And tho darkness swallowed him up.

A wailing cry awoke tho camp. Braves scrambled out of their topees and surrounded Pretty Hair, who was torn with grief. Tho cause was soon explained. Blue Jem had gone. Hole-in-tho-Head strode into thoir midst. White Feather pointed in the direction the fugitive had gone. Hole-in-the-Head, his eyes burning with a fury his lips could not express, significantly pointed in the same direction. The brave darted off like an arrow from a bow.

Ho turned to different points of the compass, and at his bidding five other braves swept across the plain. Each face was firmly set, each right hand grasped a deadly weapon, Pretty Hair’s tears had roused a fiend in each heart that only blood could allay.

When the sun rose over the Sierras, Blue Jem was twenty miles from the camp. He lay down at the foot of a hill while his horse cropped the sweet herbage of the plain. Over the crest of the hill came a solitary horseman. He started up as he saw the figure outlined against the bright morning sky. “An Indian, too,” said Blue Jem; and ho gave a low whistle which brought his horse to his side.

The figure drew nearer. The scout grew uneasy. He was no match for his pursuer, if he should turn out to be one. He had a tomahawk White Feather had given him, but that was of little use in his unskilled hands.

He was only a mile away. Blue Jem almost held his breath. Tho Indian paused at the top of the hill below which the scout was lying. He swept the plain with his eye, saw the object of his gaze, gave a whoop, and rushed like a whirlwind down tho slope. Blue Jem leaped on his horse and dashed across the plain. The Indian, yelling furiously and brandishing his tomahawk, came in hot pursuit.

Tho scout turned his head. Was he mistaken? No; it was White Feather! What could be the meaning of this strange pursuit ? The man who had helped him to escape was now seeking his life. Ho drew in his horse, prepared for explanation or attack. As tho Indian approachod, Blue Jem saw that his eyes were full of excitement and tho desire to kill. He grasped his weapon determined to sell his life dearly. The Arapaho cleaved the wind with his tomahawk and aimed a deadly blow at the scout’s head. Blue Jem, too much astonished to ask tho meaning of this strange conduct, caught the blow on his tomahawk and staggered under its fearful force. The steel blades clashed in the morning sunlight as tho two mon, alone on tho prairie, battled for their lives. Blue Jem’s blood was up, but he felt his strength slowly giving way. Ho was no match for tho Indian, who was tho strongest and most dexterous fighter of his tribe. His defence grew weaker and weaker, but just as White Feather aimed a crushing blow at his head tho scout caught it on the blade of his axe. The force sent both tomahawks flying into tho air. Blue Jem touched his horse, and the faithful animal sprang across the plain. White Feather waited not to recover his weapon. He darted in pursuit of his foe. For over a mile they run side by side, the wily scout evading every attempt of the Indian to drag him from his horse. In the distance curled up the smoko of a settler’s homestead. If he could reach it ho would be safe. The supreme moment had arrived. Tho Indian freed himself from the hide stirrups, put his bare feet on bis horse’s back, and with a splendid bound alighted on the horse of his rival. His arms like lightning twisted around Blue Jem’s neck, and, with a shout of devilish glee, he bore him on his back. Then his clastic fingers clasped around his throat, and -

Bluo Jem returned to the camp, and when Pretty Hair saw his lifeless body she flung herself upon it in a paroxysm of despair. White Feather stood watching her, a grim smile on his face. Her tears, to him, were like the raindrops on the parched prairie. —The Million.