Читать книгу Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail - Edwin L. Sabin - Страница 8

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Since early dawn forty Indians and one little red-headed white boy had been riding amidst the yellow gullies and green table-lands of western Nebraska, about where the North Platte and the South Platte Rivers come together. The most of these Indians were Cheyennes; the others were a few Arapahoes and two or three Sioux. The name of the little red-headed boy was David Scott.

He was guarded by the two squaws who had been brought along to work for the thirty-eight men. They worked for the men, little Dave worked for them; and frequently they struck him, and told him that when the Cheyenne village was reached again he would be burnt.

In the bright sunshine, amidst the great expanse of open, uninhabited country, the Indian column, riding with its scouts out, made a gallant sight. The ponies, bay, dun, black, white, spotted, were adorned with paint, gay streamers and jingly pendants. The men were bareheaded and bare bodied; on this warm day of June they had thrown off their robes and blankets. But what they lacked in clothing, they supplied in decoration.

Down the parting of the smoothly-combed black hair was run vermilion; vermilion and ochre and blue and white and black streaked coppery forehead, high cheek-bones and firm chin, and lay lavishly over brawny chest and sinewy arms. At the parting of the braids were stuck feathers—common feathers for the braves, tipped eagle feathers for the chiefs. The long braids themselves were wrapped in otter-skin and red flannel. From ears hung copper and brass and silver pendants. Upon wrists and upper arms were broad bracelets and armlets of copper. Upon feet were beaded moccasins worked in tribal designs. The fashion of the paint and the style of the moccasins it was which said that these riders were Cheyennes.

The column had no household baggage and no children (except little Dave) and no dogs; and it had no women other than just the two. The men were painted and although they rode bareheaded, from the saddle-horn of many tossed crested, feathered bonnets with long tails. These were war-bonnets. All the bows were short, thick bows. These were war-bows. All the arrows in the full quivers were barbed arrows. Hunting arrows were smooth. The lances were tufted and showy. The shields, slung to left arm, were the thick, boastfully painted war shields. The ponies were picked ponies; war ponies. Yes, anybody with half an eye could have read that this was a war party, not a hunting party or a village on the move.

Davy could have proven it. Wasn’t he here, riding between two mean squaws? And look at the plunder, from white people—some of it from his own uncle and aunt, all of it from the “whoa-haw” trains, as the Indians had named the ox-wagon columns of the emigrants and freighters.

Ever since, two weeks back, these Cheyennes had so suddenly out-charged upon his uncle’s wagon and another, strayed from the main column, they had been looking for more “whoa-haws.” This year, 1858, and the preceding half dozen years had been fine ones for Indians in search of plunder. Thousands of white people were crossing the plains, between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains; their big canvas-covered wagons contained curious and valuable things, as well as women and children. They were drawn by cattle and horses or mules, and behind followed large bands of other cattle and horses and mules. Sometimes these “whoa-haw” people fought stoutly, sometimes they had no chance to fight—as had been the case with little Dave’s uncle.

Tall Bull was the young chief in charge of the squad that had attacked the two wagons. Now Tall Bull was one of the scouts riding on the flanks and ahead of the war party, so as to spy out the country. In his two weeks with the Cheyennes Dave had learned them well. They were no fools. They rode cunningly. They were disciplined. While they kept to the low country their scouts skirted the edges of the higher country, in order to see far. By wave of blanket or movement of horse these keen-eyed scouts could signal back for more than a mile, and every Indian in the column could read the signs. Then the head chief, Cut Nose, would grunt an order, and his young men would obey.

The march was threading the bottom of a bushy ravine. Cut Nose, head chief, led; Bear-Who-Walks and Lame Buffalo, sub-chiefs, rode with him. Behind filed the long column. In the rear of all trailed the two squaws, guarding the miserable Davy.

Suddenly adown the column travelled, in one great writhe, a commotion. A scout, to the right, ahead, was signalling. He was Tall Bull. His figure, of painted self and mottled pony, was plainly outlined just at the juncture of brushy rim and sky. Now he had dismounted, and had crept forward, half stooped, as if the better to see, the less to be seen. But back he scurried, more under cover of the ravine edge; standing he snatched his buffalo robe from about his waist and swung it with the gesture that meant “Somebody in sight!”

He sprang to his spotted pony, and down he came, riding in a slow zigzag and making little circles, too. The slow zigzag meant “No hurry” and the little circles meant “Not many strangers.” And he signed with his hand.

However, large party or small party, the news was very welcome. All the other scouts sped to see what Tall Bull had seen. From side ravines out rushed at gallop the little exploring detachments. ’Twas astonishing how fast the news spread. The two squaws jabbered eagerly; and the aides of Cut Nose went galloping to reconnoitre.

As for Cut Nose himself, he halted, and thereby halted the column, while he composedly sat to receive reports. The rear gradually pressed forward to hear, and the squaws strained their ears. Davy could not understand, but this is what was said, by sign and word, when Tall Bull had arrived:

“What is it?”

“White men, on horses.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“How far?”

“A short pony ride.”

“What are they doing?”

“Travelling.”

“Any baggage?”

“No.”

“Are they armed?”

“Yes. Guns.”

Cut Nose grunted. Now Lame Buffalo, sub-chief, came scouring back. He had seen the three men. It was as Tall Bull had said. Two of the men were large, one was small. They were riding mules, and were dressed in “whoa-haw” clothes, so they were not trappers or hunters, but probably belonged to that “whoa-haw” train of many men that the column had sighted travelling east. They were riding as if they wished to catch it. But they could be reached easily, said Lame Buffalo, his black eyes blazing. Blazed the black eyes of all; and fiercest were the snappy black eyes of the two squaws. The three “whoa-haws” could be reached easily by following up a side ravine that would lead out almost within bow-shot. Then the white men would be cut off in the midst of a flat open place where they could not hide.

“Good,” grunted Cut Nose; and he issued short, rapid orders. Little Dave had not understood the words but he could understand the gestures and signs that made up more than half the talk; and he could understand the bustle that followed. The Cheyennes, the few Arapahoes and Sioux, were preparing themselves for battle.

Blankets and robes were thrown looser. Leggings were kicked off, to leave the limbs still freer. The rawhide loops by which the riders might hang to the far side of their ponies were hastily tested. Quivers were jerked into more convenient position. Arrows were loosened in them. The unstrung bows were strung. The two warriors who had old guns freshened the priming and readjusted the caps upon the nipples. Several of the younger warriors hurriedly slashed face and chest anew with paint. War bonnets were set upon heads; their feathered tails fell nearly to the ground.

With a single eagle glance adown his force Cut Nose, raising his hand as signal, dashed away up the ravine. After him dashed all his array, even to the two squaws and little Dave.

Braids tossed, hoofs thudded, war bonnets streamed, and every painted rider leaned forward, avid for the exit and the attack. Dave’s heart beat high. He was afraid for the white men. The Cheyennes were so many, so eager, and so fierce.

The scouts before kept signing that all was well. The white men evidently were riding unconscious of a foe close at hand. At the side ravine Cut Nose darted in. Its farther end was closed by brush and low plum trees, which rose to fringe the plateau above. A scout was here, peering, watching the field. He was Yellow Hand, son of Cut Nose. He signalled “Come! Quick! Enemy here!”

Thus urged, up the slope galloped Cut Nose, Lame Buffalo, Bear-Who-Walks; galloped all. At the top, emerging, Cut Nose flung high his hand, shaking his war bow. Over the top after him poured the racing mass, savage in paint and cloth and feather and decorated weapon. Swept onward with them rode little Dave, jostled between the two squaws, who whipped his pony as often as they whipped their own.

The halloo of Cut Nose rose vibrant.

“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” he whooped, exultant and threatening.

“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” yelped every rider, the squaws chiming in more piercingly than any others.

Out from the plum tree grove and into the plateau they had burst, and went charging furiously.

The sun was shining bright, for the day was glorious June. The plateau lay bare, save for the grass dried by weather and the few clumps of sage and greasewood. And there they were, the three whites, stopped short, staring and for the moment uncertain what to do.

They were alone, between bending blue sky and wide plain; a little trio in the midst of a vast expanse. As the scouts had claimed, no shelter was near. At the other edge of the plateau flowed the North Platte River, but too distant to be reached now.

Louder pealed the whoops of the warriors, louder shrieked the shrill voices of the squaws, as onward charged, headlong, the wild company, to ride over the white dogs and snatch scalp and weapon.

Almost within gunshot swept forward the attack. Already had spoken, recklessly, with “Bang! Bang!” the guns in the hands of the two excited warriors. Were the white men going to run, or stand? They were going to stand, for they had vaulted to ground. One of them was small enough to be a boy. Three puffs of blue smoke jetted from them. The leading Indians ducked low—but the shots had not been for them! Look! Down had dropped the three mules, to lie kicking and struggling.

The white men (yes, one was a boy!) bent over them, stoutly dragging and shoving; and next, in behind the bodies they had crouched. Only the tops of their broad hats and their shoulders could be described, and their gun muzzles projecting before. This, then, was their fort: the three dead mules arranged in triangle! Evidently the two men, and perhaps the boy, had fought Indians before. Davy felt like cheering; but from the forty throats rang a great shout of rage and menace. The squaws had halted, with Dave, to watch; unchecked and unafraid the warriors forged on, straight for the little barricade.

“Kill! Kill!” shrieked the squaws, glaring.

The warriors were shooting in earnest; arrows flew, the two guns again belched. The charge seemed almost upon the fort, when from it puffed the jets of smoke. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” drifted dully the reports; and with scarce an interval followed other jets, rapid and sharp: “Bang! Bang-bang! Bang! Bang!”

From the painted, parted lips of the two squaws issued a wilder, different note, and little Dave again felt like cheering; for from their saddles had lurched three of the Cheyennes, and a pony also had pitched in a heap.

Cut Nose swerved; he and every warrior flung themselves to the pony side opposite the fort, and parting, the column split as if the fort were a wedge. In two wings they went scouring right and left of it. Around and around the mule-body triangle they rode, at top speed, in a great double circle, plying their bows.

Their arrows streamed in a continuous shower, pelting the fort. They struck, quivering, in the mule bodies and in the ground. Now from every savage throat rang another shout—high, derisive. On their ponies the squaws capered, and shook their blanket ends. An arrow was quivering in a new spot—the shoulder of one of the whites. Now Davy felt like sobbing. But it was not in the shoulder of the boy; it was in the shoulder of the man beyond him, and facing the other way. However, that was bad enough.

Still, the man was not disabled; not he. His gun remain levelled, and neither the boy nor the other man paid any attention to him. The three occasionally shot, but lying low against their ponies’ sides the Indians, galloping fast, were hard to hit.

Cut Nose raised his hand again, and from the circle he veered outward. The circle instantly scattered, and after their chief galloped every warrior.

Forward hammered the two squaws, with vengeful look at little Dave which bade him not to lag. The warriors had gathered in a group, out of gunshot from the fort. Cut Nose was furious. Indians hate to lose warriors; and there were three, and a pony, stretched upon the plain.

“Are you all old women?” scolded Chief Cut Nose, while Dave tried to guess at what was being shouted, and his two guardians pressed to the edge of the circle. “You let three whites, one of whom is very little, beat us? The dogs will bark at us when we go back and the squaws will whip us through the village. Everybody at home will laugh. They will say: ‘These are not Cheyennes. They are sick Osages! They are afraid to take a scalp, and when an enemy points a stick at them, they run!’ Bah! Am I a chief, and are you warriors, or are we all ghosts?”

Panting, the warriors listened. They murmured and shrugged, as the words stung.

“Those whites shoot very straight. The little one shoots the straightest of any. They must have many guns. They shoot once and without loading they shoot again,” argued Lame Buffalo.

“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.”

Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo, especially scolded, almost burst.

“No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.”

He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout, and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke him. His eyes leaped to the fort.

The two men and the boy in the little triangle had been busy. They had rearranged the carcasses to give more protection; the arrow had been pulled from the shoulder of the wounded man; he was as alert as if he had not been hurt at all; and over the mule bodies jutted the gun muzzles, trained upon the Indian charge.

Could that tiny low triangle formed by three dead mules outlast such a yelling, tearing mob, sweeping down upon it? Could it beat back Lame Buffalo alone—that splendid feather-crowned horseman, riding like a demon, shouting like a wolf? He still led, and with every few jumps of his pony he shook his lance and whooped.

Well might those three whites in the mule triangle be afraid, at last; and who could blame the boy, there, if he, particularly, was afraid? It was a bad place for a boy. Dave watched him anxiously, and wondered.

The boy was facing toward the charge; the two men also were facing outward, to right and left of him, that they might cover the charge as it spread.

Up rose the boy’s gun; the two men seemed to be waiting upon him. He was aiming, but he would not shoot yet, would he, with the Indians so far off?

Yet, he shot! His gun muzzle puffed smoke. The squaws started, cried out, waved frantic hands—for three hundred yards from the muzzle had toppled, toppled from his pony, Lame Buffalo, smitten in mid-course! It seemed to Dave that he could hear the two white men cheering; but to the cries of the squaws were added the terrific yells of the warriors, drowning out every other sound.

Nevertheless, that was a long, long shot, for boy or man; and a good shot. The charge split again; and not daring even to pick up Lame Buffalo, who was crawling painfully and pressing a hand to his side, it circled around and around the mule fort, as before.