Читать книгу Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux; Or, The Fight in the Rapids - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 12

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In a few days Red Cloud was sufficiently recovered to travel, and Buffalo Bill was glad of the opportunity to carry out his mission at last.

The Indian and the scout mounted their horses, which were very fresh and mettlesome after their long rest in camp, and each man secretly admired the great skill and horsemanship which the other showed.

“You are a great rider, Red Cloud,” said Buffalo Bill, after he had watched his blood brother for a few moments, sitting his horse like a bronzed statue as it reared and bucked and cavorted in all directions.

A gratified smile shone on the Indian’s face, and he replied:

“Would my brother care to try to mount this horse? No other man but myself has ever ridden him. Once he kicked a brave to death who tried to ride him.”

“I don’t mind trying,” said the border king, who had never yet met the horse that he could not subdue.

He leaped from his own mustang as he spoke, but Red Cloud kept his place in the saddle.

“No, my brother,” he exclaimed. “I did but jest. I might as well take my tomahawk and bury it in your head as let you mount this beast. He would surely kill you, for he is very savage to all but myself.”

By this time Buffalo Bill’s blood was up, and he was determined to mount the Indian’s mettlesome animal.

“Here is a fair offer, Red Cloud,” he exclaimed. “If your wounds are quite well, will you try to mount my mustang and ride him? He is not fierce, but he will certainly shake you off gently to the ground if I give him the word to do so. And if you cannot keep your seat on him you must let me try to mount your beast.”

The Indian’s spirit was aroused by this challenge. He eagerly accepted it, feeling confident that he would be able to sit the mustang without any difficulty. Like his white companion, he was used to conquering any animal he met.

He dismounted and approached the mustang, which cocked up its ears suspiciously and looked inquiringly at his master.

Buffalo Bill said: “Steady, old girl!” The mare kept as quiet as a lamb while the Indian mounted her, and allowed him to ride her gently up and down.

“Ugh! Do you call her troublesome?” the redskin exclaimed. “I never rode a gentler horse.”

Buffalo Bill smiled and gave a low, peculiar whistle. Instantly the mare stopped her quiet gait and began to rear and buck violently.

The Indian clung to the saddle with great skill and resolution, but the animal suddenly stopped its plunging and rolled gently on the ground, shaking him off and depositing him gently in the long grass of the prairie.

He got up, with a shamefaced look, and waved his hand toward his own pony.

“Mount her if you wish my brother,” he said. “But I pray you be careful, for her rage is sometimes terrible. I would much prefer that you did not try.”

Buffalo Bill went fearlessly up to the animal, caught it by the bridle, and vaulted into the saddle. Instantly the pony started on a wild gallop, and before it had gone twenty yards stopped suddenly in the middle of its stride and reared up almost erect on its hind legs.

The border king leaned forward, patted its head soothingly, and whispered in its ear. The animal became quiet in a moment, brought its forefeet to the ground, and trotted along peacefully, with Buffalo Bill bending forward and soothing it all the time.

In less than two minutes he had got it under complete control, and brought it back at a gentle canter to Red Cloud, who had watched the scene with the most intense astonishment.

“Are you a medicine man, oh, brother?” he exclaimed, in amazement. “You must have some spell that you cast over horses, for I never saw anything like this in all my days.”

“There is no spell needed,” said the border king lightly. “I have a way of letting animals know that I am their friend, and so I never have any trouble with them. This is particularly the case with dogs and horses. I never yet met one that I could not get along with.”

The two men then mounted their own steeds and rode toward Red Cloud’s village, which they entered at evening on the following day.

The chief was welcomed with loud cries of delight by the women and children, and with deep grunts of satisfaction by the less demonstrative braves, whom he had led to victory against their enemies on so many occasions.

He had gone away from the village on his hunting trip for only a day or two, and they had been much alarmed by his long absence, especially as one of the braves who had been out scouting had returned to report the discovery of Cave Dwellers’ footprints in the direction which Red Cloud had taken.

A great feast was held that night, and Red Cloud sang the praises of the border king as a great white chief who had twice saved his life and had sworn blood brotherhood with him.

Naturally the redskins welcomed him warmly, and the chiefs and old men smoked the pipe of peace with him, and swore that he would always be to them as their brother, because he had restored to them their beloved chief.

Under such circumstances as these, Cody’s mission was naturally rendered easy for him. At a council of the tribe he told of the crushing defeat which had been inflicted on the Crows, Cheyennes, and Sioux at Fort Larned, and he appealed to the Navahos to keep the peace and try to induce the other tribes in the Southwest to do the same.

There was hardly any dispute about the matter. Only two or three of the younger and more hot-headed braves spoke in favor of war, and they were speedily overruled. Solemn pledges were given that the peace with the palefaces would be kept, and when at last the time came for Buffalo Bill to leave the village and rejoin his friends, he did so with a feeling of deep satisfaction at the complete success he had achieved in his diplomatic task.

“Do not go back on horseback, my brother,” said Red Cloud to him, when the king of the scouts announced that he must make his preparations for departure. “Go by the river. It is much easier, and it will land you within a few miles of the ranch where your friends are waiting for you. One of my braves can take your horse for you to that place, and he can bring back the canoe which you will use.”

Buffalo Bill agreed to this arrangement willingly. Although he traveled so much on horseback, he was not averse to other means of transportation, now and then.

Red Cloud loaned him a fine birch-bark canoe, and the greater part of the population of the village came down to the river bank to see him off, parting from him with expressions of the deepest regret.

“Take care you don’t fall in with the Nez Perces, my brother,” was Red Cloud’s final warning. “They are a cruel and treacherous tribe, and Yellow Plume, their chief, has no love for white men.”

“I know that,” Buffalo Bill replied. “I have met Yellow Plume twice, and once I had a very narrow escape from falling into his clutches.”

With a parting wave of his hand, the king of the scouts plied the paddle vigorously and sent his frail bark into the center of the stream. In a few moments, he had passed round the bend of the river, and was out of sight of the Navahos.

The journey to the ranch was not a long one, but it was considerably increased by the windings of the stream. The banks were clad thickly with timber and brushwood, and the bushes in many places grew right down into the water.

Buffalo Bill had been traveling for about five hours when he saw a canoe suddenly shoot out into the middle of the river from under the cover of some of these bushes. In it were seated two Indians.

They yelled at him threateningly, and ordered him to halt.

The border king saw at a glance that they belonged to the Nez Perces tribe, and that their motives were obviously hostile.

As he came near to them, he put down his paddle and took up his rifle. At the same moment one of the Indians fitted an arrow to his bow and drew it up to his head.

Before he could discharge the shaft, Buffalo Bill tumbled him over into the water with a bullet through his breast.

The other Nez Perce gave a yell of alarm and paddled swiftly for the shelter of the bank. Before he could reach it, however, he, too, fell a victim to the deadly rifle of the king of the scouts. Cody had no wish that the man should escape and bring a horde of his companions down upon him.

Putting down his rifle, Buffalo Bill paddled on. He soon got into broken water, which suggested that he was approaching some rapids.

The strength and roughness of the stream rapidly increased, and just as the scout was thinking that it would soon be advisable to paddle in to the bank and make a portage with the canoe, a new and serious danger confronted him. Just behind him, over toward the left, he heard a chorus of loud and angry yells.

Recognizing the war cry of the Nez Perces, he looked over his shoulder, and saw a large canoe shoot out from the cover of some low-growing bushes. It was filled by six stalwart Indians, and their powerful arms made the craft shoot toward Buffalo Bill’s canoe at terrific speed.

The border king paddled as hard as he could, but escape in that way was out of the question.

The Indians did not seem to want to kill him. They were intent upon making him a prisoner.

With every stroke of the paddle, it became more and more apparent that some dangerous rapids were being neared. But neither Buffalo Bill nor his pursuers, in the excitement of the chase, took much heed of that fact.

Cody thought of stopping and fighting it out, but the Indians were so close that he knew he could only kill two or three of them before the rest settled with him. Therefore, when they had almost drawn alongside, he cast a swift glance around and decided that his only chance was to take to the water and swim to the other bank, where he might find cover and escape.

As he looked round he saw that the man in the bow of the Indians’ canoe was none other than Yellow Plume, the chief of the Nez Perces; and he determined that he would take any risk rather than fall into his hands as a prisoner.

Suddenly, to the intense amazement of the redskins, Buffalo Bill flung down his paddle and slipped over the side of the canoe farthest from them.

With a yell of hate, Yellow Plume leaped to his feet and, bending his bow, let drive full at the scout. But with the quickness of thought Buffalo Bill dived ere the shaft could reach him, and, drawing his bowie, slashed fiercely at the bottom of the savages’ frail craft as it swept past him.

Still keeping under water, he swam to the bank and pulled himself up under cover of a weeping willow that grew right down into the stream.

Peering through the branches, he saw that the Nez Perces had come to grief. Their canoe had speedily filled with water and sunk.

As he watched he saw Yellow Plume swirled violently by the swift current against a rock, which cracked his skull as if it were an eggshell. Two of the other savages, unable to struggle against the rapids into which they had now entered, were speedily drowned; but the remaining three, taking advantage of an eddy in the current, managed to swim to the opposite bank.

Buffalo Bill continued his journey on foot, and at last reached his destination. He was warmly welcomed by the rancher, an old man who had known him for many years in several parts of the West and who had a great reputation as an Indian fighter. His name was Hank Jones. He was much pleased when he heard the news of Buffalo Bill’s dealing with the Navahos, for he lived near the border of their country and was naturally delighted to know that they were likely to keep the hatchet buried.

“Have you had any trouble with the Cave Dwellers?” the king of the scouts asked, as they sat smoking after dinner.

The old man said that he had not had any for the last year or so, but that they were in the habit of stealing his cattle before the Navahos broke their power in the manner Red Cloud had described. The border had now been at peace for some time, and the settlers were consequently enjoying a period of unusual prosperity.

“Gol-durned dull, I should call it,” said Nick Wharton, who had now fully recovered from his injuries. “What in thunder do you do to pass the time?”

His host explained that there was plenty of good hunting in the neighborhood, and he hoped to show them some before they left his ranch.

“Grizzlies and mountain lions is pretty well in thar way,” growled old Nick, “but a man hunt for mine, that’s the greatest sport of all.”

Next morning, Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill went out for a ride together, and stopped for a glass of milk at the log cabin of a settler about ten miles off. As the man was handing it to them, his glance fell upon a couple of Indians who were coming toward them at full gallop.

“Injuns!” he said, and he ran inside to fetch his gun.

Buffalo Bill looked carefully at the men as they rode up, and saw that they were Navahos. They were not dressed in their war paint, and when they came near enough he recognized their features as those of two of Red Cloud’s best braves.

The old man reappeared, rifle in hand, and was about to level the weapon at the redskins, when the border king stopped him and exchanged greetings with the Indians.

“What is the matter, Eagle Eye?” he asked the leader of the two braves.

The Indian was much excited. Instead of wasting time beating about the bush and exchanging empty compliments, after the manner of his people, he went straight to the point at once.

“Red Cloud has been captured by the Cave Dwellers, and carried off to one of their inaccessible caves in the mountains,” he said. “We fear that they are saving him to offer up as a sacrifice at their great feast of Toshak, five nights hence, and that then they will devour his flesh, and so disgrace our tribe and the bones of our ancestors forever.”

Buffalo Bill recoiled in horror at this news, for he had grown to like the young Indian extremely, on account of his high courage and manly qualities.

“How did this happen?” he asked. “Where were your braves, that they allowed their chief to be captured?”

“Blame us not, oh great white chief,” said Eagle Eye, “although in truth I sometimes blame myself. Yet I could not help it.

“Red Cloud went by night to visit the graves of his father and uncle and pray to the Great Manitou to give him wisdom and strength to rule properly over the tribe. It was his custom to do this once every moon.

“Knowing that the Cave Dwellers had sought his life many times, I begged him to let me accompany him to the graves and watch over his safety while he prayed. But he would not permit it. He strictly commanded me not to follow him, saying that he must be alone with the spirit of his father.

“When day dawned he had not returned to the village, and I began to grow alarmed. After an hour had passed I went to the burying place with six other braves. Red Cloud had disappeared, but two dead Cave Dwellers lay on the ground near his father’s grave.

“There had been a fierce struggle, as the marks on the ground plainly showed; but the Cave Dwellers were more than twenty to one, and at last they had overpowered him and carried him away to one of their caves.

“Following swiftly on their trail, we found this message, which he had managed to write and drop on the path when they were not watching him closely.”

Eagle Eye handed to the border king a fragment of white cloth, evidently torn from the Navaho chief’s shirt, on which was written, in Indian hieroglyphics with the man’s own blood, the following brief but appealing message:

“Tell my brother, Long Hair.”

Buffalo Bill’s heart burned within him with rage against the Cave Dwellers as he read these words, and he registered a mental vow to do all that a man could do to save his blood brother from their clutches.

“We could not catch the Cave Dwellers before they reached their mountains and ascended to their lofty retreats,” said Eagle Eye, continuing his story. “It was hopeless to try to follow them there, for they had many sentries posted on rocky ledges on the hillside. These sentries shook their spears at us and shouted their defiance.

“We would have ascended, but we could find no path by which to climb. Every time we followed one, we found it terminated in a sheer wall of rock or a precipice.

“At last I pretended to withdraw, with my men, but really lay concealed in the brushwood near the foot of the mountain until one of the Cave Dwellers came down, thinking we had gone. We captured him, and forced him to tell us what they were going to do with Red Cloud. He said they were keeping him for a sacrifice at their cannibal feast of Toshak.

“I sent two of my braves to bring the rest of the tribe to the spot, left the others on watch near the mountains, with the prisoner, and then followed you as hard as we could ride to give you Red Cloud’s message.

“I have heard much of your great deeds, oh Long Hair, and I thought that if anybody could rescue Red Cloud it would be you, who are his blood brother. But, indeed, it seems hopeless, for we are not birds that we can fly to the abode of the Cave Dwellers.”

“If they can climb up, we can,” said Buffalo Bill, with his usual brave confidence. “There must be a path, and we must find it.”

During this conversation they had been riding back to the ranch at a sharp canter, and they soon reached it. While food and drink were being served to the two Indians by the orders of the hospitable rancher, the border king told Nick Wharton and his host that he would have to postpone the hunting trip they had arranged, and go instead to the rescue of his blood brother.

“Have as good a time as you can while I’m away, Nick,” he said, “but don’t shoot everything in sight. Leave a little hunting for me to do when I get back.”

“Shuck my hide, Buffler!” exclaimed the old scout, in aggrieved tones, “but did you sagashuate that I was goin’ ter let yer go off by yer lonesome among those Injuns? I’m comin’ along, too, and if we don’t find some way ter flutter up that gol-durned mountain, call me a blamed tenderfoot.”

Ten minutes later Buffalo Bill, accompanied by Wild Bill and Nick Wharton, rode with the Indians to join the Navaho braves who had assembled at the foot of the Cave Dwellers’ mountain to rescue their chief.