Читать книгу Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux; Or, The Fight in the Rapids - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 3

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One summer morning, in the sixties, when the Indians in the West and Southwest were still giving much trouble to Uncle Sam’s settlers and soldiers, and when the great railway lines were being pushed forward across the continent to the Pacific coast, a scout rode across country in Kansas from Fort Larned to another military post, about sixty miles distant.

He was carrying the military mail and dispatches from one fort to another, and his mission was an exceedingly dangerous one, for it was known that the Indians in Kansas and the neighboring territory were on the point of rising to attack the whites, if they had not already risen.

Many reports had been received from scouts familiar with the Indians which showed that an alliance was being arranged between several of the tribes with the object of going on the warpath in numbers strong enough, as they imagined, to enable them to bid defiance to Uncle Sam’s troopers, even though the latter were armed with the quick-firing “devil guns” so much feared by the redskins.

The scout who was riding across country was, with one exception, the most remarkable man of his class at that time in the West.

He was none other than our old friend Wild Bill, and it need hardly be added that the exception alluded to was his great friend and comrade, Colonel William F. Cody, better known as “Buffalo Bill,” the king of the scouts.

As he rode along, mounted upon a magnificent mustang, Wild Bill was a splendid, fearless figure that it would have done the heart of any brave man good merely to look upon.

In person he was about six feet one inch in height, and, as has been described by his friend, General George A. Custer, “straight as the straightest of the Indian warriors whose implacable foe he was.” He had broad shoulders, well-formed chest and limbs, and a face strikingly handsome. His sharp, clear blue eyes were used to looking any man straight in the face, whether that man were friend or foe. His nose was a fine aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, with lips partly concealed by a handsome mustache.

His hair and complexion were those of a perfect blond—fair as a Saxon viking. He wore the former in long, flowing ringlets, which fell carelessly over his powerfully formed shoulders. Riding his horse as if he were part of the animal, he looked a perfect type of physical manhood.

He had galloped for about twenty miles, when he stopped on a small hill overlooking a valley through which a river ran.

He cast a quick glance around the landscape to see if any foes were in sight, and his eyes immediately fell upon a band of about fifty Indians not more than a third of a mile away.

They saw him almost at the same moment, and immediately jumped on their horses, from which they had dismounted with the idea of watering them in the river, and gave chase.

Wild Bill waited until they came near enough to enable him to see what tribes they belonged to, and whether they were dressed in their war paint. When he had satisfied his doubts on those scores, and found out that they were really on the warpath, he hastily turned his mustang to make a ride for life. But before he galloped off, he lifted his rifle and shot the foremost of the Indians through the head.

As the brave tumbled from his horse, his comrades gave a yell of rage. Wild Bill responded by turning in the saddle and waving his sombrero toward them defiantly.

They fired a scattering volley, but the bullets whizzed harmlessly around him. Riding over uneven ground, the Indians could not take accurate aim.

The scout was riding a splendid mustang, and the gallant animal fully understood what was expected of him. He knew that it was a ride for life, and that he must put forth his greatest speed to save his master from death and himself from an Indian owner—a fate terrible to any decent horse.

He crossed a wide ravine and tore along the valley toward Fort Larned.

Reaching a ridge beyond, Wild Bill looked back for a moment and saw that the Indians were tearing after him. They rode at great speed, and many of them were evidently well mounted.

“Their own ponies can’t travel like that,” said the scout to himself. “They must have done some raiding before this, and got hold of some of the settlers’ animals. The rising we’ve been looking for has broken out, sure. Them folks at the fort must be put on their guard, whatever happens. I guess the whole country will be ablaze in a couple of days.”

If he had been mounted on a fresh horse, Wild Bill would have had no doubt of the outcome of the race; but his mustang, splendid animal though he was, had already ridden far, and showed signs of flagging.

The Indians began to gain on their quarry for a time, and then the mustang made a spurt and shot ahead again. But the effort was too great for him, and he could not keep up his speed for long.

When he had run about three miles farther, half a dozen of the Indians had crept up to within two or three hundred yards, while several of the other braves were not far behind.

Now and then they fired at him, but their rifles were of inferior quality and their aim was bad, so that neither the scout nor his horse was touched.

The Indians seemed to be shortening the distance from their prey at every stride, but Wild Bill bent over in his saddle and whispered to his mustang: “Get up, old man!”

It was the first effort he had made to urge the animal to greater speed, and immediately he exerted himself to the very utmost, drawing slowly away from the Indians for the next three or four miles.

But there was a limit to the mustang’s power of endurance, if not to his will.

The Indians were nearly as well mounted as Wild Bill, and their steeds were comparatively fresh. One of them in particular—a spotted animal—kept gaining all the time. The others were strung out behind in a long line for a distance of more than a mile, but they were all riding as hard as they knew how, for they wanted to be “in at the death.”

The brave riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and as he drew within a hundred yards he occasionally sent a bullet whizzing unpleasantly close to Wild Bill.

The scout saw that this Indian must be stopped, or a stray shot from his gun might do fatal harm to his mustang or himself.

Suddenly reining up his horse and wheeling him around, Wild Bill raised his rifle to his shoulder and took a quick aim at the brave.

The Indian was not more than sixty yards off, and as Wild Bill’s rifle cracked he reeled and fell from his saddle.

Without waiting to see whether his enemy was dead or only wounded, the scout wheeled his horse around and fairly flew in the direction of Fort Larned.

He would have liked to stop and take a few shots at the other Indians as they came dashing toward him, but he realized that his first duty was to carry a warning to the fort. He had no right to play with his life when such a duty as that was placed upon him.

It was true that fifty Indians could do nothing against the strong body of troops stationed at the fort, but, if they succeeded in killing him, they would certainly not ride on for that place.

They would wait until reënforced by a much stronger party, and then perhaps carry the fort by surprise if the garrison had not received a timely warning.

Wild Bill realized these facts, and resolved that he must curb his natural propensity to fight, and run away instead—a thing he always hated to do, however great might be the number of the enemies opposed to him.

While he was engaged in shooting their leader, the other Indians had gained upon him, and they sent several shots whizzing after him as he resumed his flight. Now and then he turned in the saddle and returned their fire, shooting two of the foremost horses as they drew near him.

“Buffler Bill would shoot the blamed varmints through the head if he was here,” muttered the scout, “but I’m not sure as how I could do that with a snap aim at a gallop. Anyhow, I can’t run the risk, so I’ll shoot the durned cayuses instead.”

The redskins kept up the pursuit until they were within about three miles of the fort. One of the outposts saw them chasing the scout over the prairie and promptly gave the alarm, for a vigilant watch was being maintained at that critical time.

As Wild Bill rode up, several of the soldiers mounted in hot haste and rode to his rescue. The Indians saw this, and promptly turned on their trail to ride back as quickly as they had come.

A lieutenant, with thirty or forty men behind him, galloped in pursuit, while Wild Bill rode into the fort to make his report to the commandant.