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The Hoodlum Band
by
But lately a baleful change had come over them. Acting under some evil influence, they now pushed their warfare into the white settlements, carrying fire and destruction with them. Again and again had the government offered them a free pass to Washington and the privilege of being photographed, but under the same evil guidance they refused. There was a singular mystery in their mode of aggression. School-houses were always burned, the schoolmasters taken into captivity, and never again heard from. A palace car on the Union Pacific Railway, containing an excursion party of teachers en route to San Francisco, was surrounded, its inmates captured, and–their vacancies in the school catalogue never again filled. Even a Board of Educational Examiners, proceeding to Cheyenne, were taken prisoners, and obliged to answer questions they themselves had proposed, amidst horrible tortures. By degrees these atrocities were traced to the malign influence of a new chief of the tribe. As yet little was known of him but through his baleful appellations, “Young Man who Goes for his Teacher,” and “He Lifts the Hair of the School Marm.” He was said to be small and exceedingly youthful in appearance. Indeed, his earlier appellative, “He Wipes his Nose on his Sleeve,” was said to have been given to him to indicate his still boy-like habits.
It was night in the encampment and among the lodges of the “Pigeon Toes.” Dusky maidens flitted in and out among the camp-fires like brown moths, cooking the toothsome buffalo hump, frying the fragrant bear’s meat, and stewing the esculent bean for the braves. For a few favored ones spitted grasshoppers were reserved as a rare delicacy, although the proud Spartan soul of their chief scorned all such luxuries.
He was seated alone in his wigwam, attended only by the gentle Mushymush, fairest of the “Pigeon Feet” maidens. Nowhere were the characteristics of her great tribe more plainly shown than in the little feet that lapped over each other in walking. A single glance at the chief was sufficient to show the truth of the wild rumors respecting his youth. He was scarcely twelve, of proud and lofty bearing, and clad completely in wrappings of various-colored scalloped cloths, which gave him the appearance of a somewhat extra-sized pen-wiper. An enormous eagle’s feather, torn from the wing of a bald eagle who once attempted to carry him away, completed his attire. It was also the memento of one of his most superhuman feats of courage. He would undoubtedly have scalped the eagle but that nature had anticipated him.
“Why is the Great Chief sad?” asked Mushymush, softly. “Does his soul still yearn for the blood of the pale-faced teachers? Did not the scalping of two professors of geology in the Yale exploring party satisfy his warrior’s heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Hayden and Clarence King are still to follow? Shall his own Mushymush bring him a botanist to-morrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother lies on my heart like the snow on the mountain, and checks the flow of my speech.”
Still the proud Boy Chief sat silent. Suddenly he said: “Hist!” and rose to his feet. Taking a long rifle from the ground he adjusted its sight. Exactly seven miles away on the slope of the mountain the figure of a man was seen walking. The Boy Chief raised the rifle to his unerring eye and fired. The man fell.
A scout was dispatched to scalp and search the body. He presently returned.
“Who was the pale face?” eagerly asked the chief.
“A life insurance agent.”
A dark scowl settled on the face of the chief.
“I thought it was a book-peddler.”
“Why is my brother’s heart sore against the book-peddler?” asked Mushymush.
“Because,” said the Boy Chief, fiercely, “I am again without my regular dime novel, and I thought he might have one in his pack. Hear me, Mushymush; the United States mails no longer bring me my ‘Young America,’ or my ‘Boys’ and Girls’ Weekly.’ I find it impossible, even with my fastest scouts, to keep up with the rear of General Howard, and replenish my literature from the sutler’s wagon. Without a dime novel or a ‘Young America,’ how am I to keep up this Injin business?”