Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Pursuit; Or, The Heavy Hand of Justice - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 7

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Nick Nomad, the old trapper and mountainman, had received word from his famous pard, Buffalo Bill, informing him that the latter intended to go into the desert country that lay near the base of the Sepulcher Mountains, for the purpose, if possible, of breaking up the road-agent organization known to exist there.

The mountains of the gruesome name deserved the title of Sepulcher. They were barren and forbidding, and held so little water on their desert side that it was as much as a man’s life was worth to get lost in them there, for he was pretty certain to die of thirst. Yet the Sepulcher Mountains held gold in paying quantities, and that lure was drawing men from all quarters of the country.

Gold is such a magnet that, no matter where it is, men will go to get it, even under the arctic circle; and if it could be certainly known that gold is at the north pole, money would soon be found to equip expeditions of such magnitude that the secret of even that hitherto unassailable point would quickly be laid bare.

The miners and prospectors who were working in the Sepulcher Mountains, and in the adjacent desert, locally called Death Valley, had been shipping out a good deal of gold, by the stages, and in other ways; and on that gold road agents had been levying heavy tolls.

Yet, knowing this, Nick Nomad had been unaccountably careless, after striking the trail leading into the Sepulcher Mountains. He fancied that the road agents confined their operations rather exclusively to another trail, and to the other side of the mountains, and to the trails that crisscrossed the desert. Hence, he did not adopt his usual precautions. He went to sleep in the open, with a fire burning, curling himself up by it, and there enjoying his pipe in fancied security.

Near by grazed his horse, the famous old Nebuchadnezzar; a horse whose apparent age and decrepitude had to be discounted, or the beholder would be much fooled in him; for, though it seemed that Nebuchadnezzar had about outlived his usefulness and could run no more than a turtle, the old beast was amazingly swift, and also amazingly intelligent. So intelligent was he that old Nick Nomad felt as safe, with Nebuchadnezzar grazing close by, as if the horse had been a trained watch dog sitting guard there.

However, even old Nebuchadnezzar grew sleepy after a while, and lay down on the grass to rest. Being tired that day, for he had journeyed far, he slept quite as heavily as did his wearied master; so that, though his ears were keen, trampling hoofs were almost upon the camp before the fact was thudded by their hoofs into his dull ears, arousing him.

Nebuchadnezzar lifted his head then, and squealed a warning, at the same time scrambling up and snorting in alarm.

Nick Nomad opened his eyes, and bounded to his feet with the agility of a man many years younger. As he did so, he caught up his rifle, an ancient weapon, and swung it round his head.

“Whoa, Nebby, consarn ye!” he grunted. “What’s up?”

He knew on the instant. “Hands up!” came to him out of the darkness, and he heard rifles clicking. Then he saw dimly the figures of mounted men.

He ducked with lightning quickness, sliding across the smoldering fire as he did so, trying thus to reach Nebuchadnezzar. He whistled at the same time in a shrill way, and the knowing beast came running toward him, until stopped by the lariat.

The horse reached the end of the lariat with a jerk, and stood snorting.

“Whoa, Nebby!”

In another minute Nick Nomad would have cut the lariat and been on the back of the old horse; but a rifle rang, and the bullet whistled past his face, making its wind felt, it was so close.

Nomad stopped, then; not because he so much feared for himself, as because he feared for the life of Nebuchadnezzar. He knew that even in the darkness those riflemen could see well enough to shoot down the horse; he was sure they would do it if he tried to get away on its back; and Nebuchadnezzar was as dear to him as his own life. He faced around, swinging his heavy rifle.

“By all ther spooks o’ ther hills, ef I don’t let daylight through ye, ef ye shoot Nebby!” he yelled. “’Ware thar, and don’t do it!”

A man was riding toward him, and at the man’s heels came others.

“Hands up!”

“And drap my gun? Waal, ye don’t know me, if ye think I’ll do it. Waugh!”

“Put down that gun!”

“I’ll do that, yes; and willin’, see ’t I can’t do nothin’ else. But I shoots ther fust cuss thet lays a hand in harm on my ole hoss.”

The man drew rein, and some of those behind him snickered at Nomad’s words.

“Who aire ye?”

“Waugh! I’m a better man than ther critter that asks ther question!”

“No foolishness! Hands up! And give your name!”

One of the man’s followers, who had ridden near enough to see Nomad, now announced the old trapper’s name.

“Nick Nomad,” he said; “ther friend of Buffler Bill! And may the devil roast him!”

“Put down yer gun!” the leader commanded.

The tone was so menacing that Nomad saw he must comply, if he didn’t want to feel the lead of the outlaw’s revolver. So he laid the old rifle on the ground, though he did it with a sigh. Then he folded his arms on his breast, and stood erect before the outlaws, an impressive figure, in spite of his small stature, wizened face, and his eccentric dress.

He was a typical trapper of the old time in appearance, with his fringed and greasy leggings, and hunting shirt of cloth and deerskin, and the round beaver-skin cap on his head, the cap being as greasy and soiled as his clothing.

“Now, what is it ye want of me?” he said; though the manner in which the announcement of his name had been received told him that these men were his enemies; and he was sure they were road agents, the very desperadoes he had come there to seek with his old pard, Buffalo Bill.

The men sprang from their saddles and surrounded him.

Old Nebuchadnezzar backed from them to the end of his picket rope, and snorted indignantly and fearfully.

“Aire you Nick Nomad, as he says?” demanded the leader, peering into the trapper’s face.

Nomad fancied that lying would gain him nothing.

“Happy ter say thet I am,” he declared. “I reckon it ain’t a name ter be ashamed on, along this hyar border; seein’ thet Injuns and outlaws never yit liked ther sound of it.”

“Give up yer weapons.”

“Thar’s my gun.”

“But yer other weapons—yer knife and pistols.”

“And then what?” the old man asked. “Mebbe ye’ll be wantin’ me ter give up my life next?”

“Surrender yer weapons!” was shouted at him.

Nomad was driven to the conviction that this surrender meant his death; but, if he was to die, he preferred to do it in more heroic fashion than that.

He sprang from the ground, as the outlaw leader bent toward him; and his foot, catching the man under the chin, hurled him back against the men behind him, throwing them into sudden confusion.

Nomad, the next instant, was leaping away.

He did not run toward Nebuchadnezzar, preferring to take the chances of bullets alone, so strongly did he love his horse.

Bullets followed, whizzing through the air round his head.

The outlaws jumped in chase of him, yelling like Indians.

Nomad stumbled, as he thus leaped along, and fell to the ground.

It was a good thing for him; for bullets swept through the air over the spot where he dropped, and some of them would have struck him if he had remained in an upright position.

He was trying to rise, when one of the outlaws sprang on him, landing astride of his back, and almost knocking the breath out of him. This outlaw threw his arms round Nomad’s neck, and yelled for help; and, other outlaws piling on him at once, the old man was forced to submit.

When he had been tied, and sat helpless on the grass, and the light of a hastily built camp fire illuminated the scene, he stared quizzically into the face of the infuriated leader, who stood now before him, boiling with rage.

“If old Nebby once puts his foot in yer face,” said Nomad, “man, you’ll know thet the little love tap I handed ye wa’n’t jes’ nothin’ at all! And what would ye expect? Was I goin’ to stand still and let ye kill me? You’ve got me now; and so I cal’late I can’t help myself.”

Snaky Pete, for it was he, drew a knife.

“I’m tempted to slice ye into mince meat!” he gasped.

“I wouldn’t,” said Nomad coolly; “fer I’ll tell ye right now that I’m too old and tough ter make good mince meat out of.”

The man turned around, fierce in his manner as an enraged grizzly.

“Where’s Pool Clayton?” he snarled.

A young man, a mere stripling, stepped forth from the vociferating crowd.

“Here!” he said.

Nomad looked at him by the light of the fire. He saw a youth of comely appearance, yet with a certain hardness of face that showed a desperate attempt at recklessness.

“You’ve been braggin’ of yer nerve,” said Snaky Pete to the youth. “Hyer’s yer chance to show it!”

Pool Clayton looked at his chief uneasily.

“I don’t think I understand you!” he said, in clear-cut tones that were quite unlike the gruff, thick speech of his companions.

“Ye don’t?”

“No.”

“Well, hyer’s a chance to show yer nerve, and prove that you’re one of us. You need hardenin’. We’ve got this old fool; but we can’t keep him, and we can’t let him go. Git your gun, and put a bullet through him, as he sets there. That’ll finish him, as a warnin’ to others like him; and then we’ll go on.”

The young man became as pale as if he had seen a ghost. He looked about appealingly.

“I—I—can’t do it!” he gasped. “It’s—it’s murder!”

Snaky Pete glared at him.

“You won’t obey orders?”

“Yes—I’m willing to obey orders, but——”

“Then, do what I tell ye!” roared the desperado leader. “Git yer rifle, and put a bullet through this carrion, and show you’re a man, with the nerve of a man.”

Pool Clayton whitened still more, and trembled visibly.

The outlaws pressed close about him, staring into his face, noting this sign of what they considered weakness and cowardice.

Snaky Pete’s eyes glittered like the eyes of the basilisk.

“Do ye hear me?” he yelled.

Clayton half turned about, as if he intended to obey; then stopped.

“I—I can’t do it!” he gasped. “Don’t ask me to.”

Snaky Pete came closer to him, his huge first doubled.

“Do you obey orders?” he shouted.

“Yes—but——”

Crack! Snaky Pete’s heavy fist shot out, and struck the youth full in the face, knocking him down.

Clayton fell, clawing at the air; and then lay still where he had fallen.

The outlaw leader stepped toward him, as if he meant to administer a kick in addition to the blow.

“You’re the one that’s a tarnal coward!” old Nomad muttered. “I never seen a man o’ that kind that wasn’t.”

He was apparently the only calm person there; though it was his life that was threatened.

Snaky Pete lifted his heavy boot to kick Clayton, then repented of his intention.

“Let him lay!” he snarled. “He’ll come ’round all right. And we’ll move on. He ain’t got the spirit of a skunk.”

The outlaws began to get their horses ready for moving on. Snaky Pete walked up to his prisoner. He looked fairly fiendish in the flickering firelight.

“Don’t git gay over this!” he growled. “You’ll go over the range in the morning, just the same. That young skunk will come ’round bimeby and foller on, and then will be meek as a kitten. He’ll finish you with that bullet, and be glad to, before we git through with him.”

The sage old trapper did not answer this brutal speech. He had learned wisdom with his years.

When the desperadoes lifted him to the back of old Nebuchadnezzar the cords slipped from one of his wrists.

He did not try to take advantage of it, so far as attempting an escape was concerned; but in writhing around, as he struggled to straighten up on his horse, he contrived to drop from an inner pocket the letter which Buffalo Bill found.

The shrewd old trapper was sure that sooner or later the keen-eyed scout would hit that trail, and then would find that letter, and he believed that if he could contrive to keep the breath of life in his body until Buffalo Bill was given time to do something, his chances of escape were yet good. Hence, he resolved to do nothing to unduly anger this truculent outlaw chief and his men.

“I kin be as humble as a creepin’ field mouse, when I haf to,” was his thought, “and meek and humble is my lay now; maybe it’ll pull me through.”

When the outlaws went on they left Pool Clayton lying unconscious on the grass, his horse lariated and grazing close by him.