Читать книгу Buffalo Bill Entrapped; or, A Close Call - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 3

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One June night in the early seventies, the sole occupant of a lonely cabin high up in the Rockies had a bad dream. Pursued by a legion of monsters, he found himself on the verge of a bottomless pit. While he choked with terror, a terrific noise as of the bursting of a bomb dissipated the horrible illusion to which his brain had been subjected, and he awoke gasping and wild-eyed. His face was covered with a cold perspiration, and for some moments he was incapable of movement. With the return of his wits came sounds that he could distinguish. They brought him to his feet instantly. Not far away had come a succession of pistol and rifle shots.

As he hurriedly dressed, a bright light streamed in at the window. The room was brilliantly lighted up, and the man could hear the crackling of timbers, and knew that the cabin of his nearest neighbor was in flames.

Opening the door, he stepped out into the open air. The sky for a great distance presented a lurid spectacle.

Looking toward the lower end of the small flat upon which he was located, he saw, as he expected, a cabin on fire.

The crack! crack! of a rifle greeted his ears as he was on the point of starting for the cabin. What did all these shots mean? Was the fire the work of an incendiary, and had murder been added to arson?

Bart Angell, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter, as brave a man as ever stood six feet two without boots, compressed his lips tightly, and into his sharp, homely, honest face there crept an expression of grim resolution. Rifle in hand, he started on a run for the burning cabin, and was about halfway to the spot when he caught sight of a man, a stranger, running from the fire and toward the brush at the outlet of a ravine.

Crack! went Angell’s rifle, and the runner, with an unearthly scream, fell to the ground.

The cabin was in ruins as the scout passed it to reach the form of the man he had shot.

He was near the victim, who was lying on his face, when he heard a faint voice calling him from the bushes on his right. He stopped, said loudly, “Who’s that?” and, receiving no answer, walked quickly toward the place whence the voice had come.

The light was still strong enough for Angell to see about him, and he was near the bushes when he saw a section of the buckskin habiliments of a man who was lying on the ground.

“That you, Bart?” asked a faint voice, as the scout reached the bushes.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” ejaculated Angell, as his eyes rested on the face of the prostrate man in buckskin. “Buffalo Bill!”

The king of scouts tried to rise, but the effort was a failure. “I—I am all right, Bart,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Lost blood that I need in my business, that’s all.”

Angell quickly made an examination of Buffalo Bill’s hurt. He had been shot in the side, and it was impossible then to tell how serious was the injury. But after the wound had been washed and bandaged and a generous stimulant had been administered, the king of scouts diagnosed his case, and, as it proved, correctly.

“The bullet did not go straight into my anatomy, Bart. That’s a cinch.” He felt along his side. “It struck a rib, glanced and shot upward. I can feel it under the skin near the armpit.”

“Then I’ll purceed ter seperate it from yer person, old son,” remarked Angell, and with his hunting knife he deftly performed this bit of surgery.

The operation over, he said: “I’ve shore got ter ask yer ter excuse me fer a few minutes. Thar’s a measly rickaroon at the edge of ther flat that is claimin’ my attention.”

“Come to remember, I did hear your Peter Erastus speak just before I called to you, Bart. Did you bring down your man?”

The homely scout snorted. “Do I know how ter shoot? Buffalo, I’m ashamed on ye.”

With these words he walked away, and was soon bending over the form of his victim. The man was not dead, but the end was not far off.

Angell raised the victim’s head and gazed sharply into the pale face. The man was an utter stranger. He had a large mouth, a retreating chin, and little eyes set close together. Upon his face was a stubby, reddish growth of hair.

The eyes opened after some whisky had been poured down the man’s throat.

“Got me fer keeps,” was the hoarse remark, the little eyes blinking furiously.

“Yer shore goin’ ter peter,” replied Angell gravely; “an’, bein’ ez that aire so, it’s up ter you ter tell ther truth. Why d’ye fire ther cabin an’ shoot Buffalo Bill, an’ whatever hev become of Matt Holmes, who lived in ther cabin?”

“I never shot no one,” said the dying man. “I sot ther cabin on fire, an’ that’s all I did. I aimed ter do ther killin’, but it war done—war done—by——” The voice ceased, and a few seconds later Bart Angell was looking at the face of a dead man.

With a sour face, the slayer left the body and returned to the king of scouts.

“I didn’t git thar in time fer a satisfactory auntymottim, as them aire crowner fellers would say,” he announced. “Ther skunk went up ther flume without tellin’ all he knowed about ther fire an’ ther shootin’. But”—his countenance lighting up—“mebbe you kin fill in ther blanks.”

“Who was the man you killed?” inquired Buffalo Bill eagerly.

“Hanged ef I know. Some ornery cuss that looks as ef he war three parts idjut.”

“Is he well dressed and a good looker in the face?”

“Not by a jugful. He aire as homely as a hedge fence, and he wears the clothes of a scarecrow.”

“Then the villain who is responsible for this night’s work has escaped.”

“Do ye know him?”

“No, I don’t know him, but”—and there was a world of determination in the tone—“I am going to know him, and——”

He paused, and his eyes flashed ominously.

There was silence for a while, and then Angell said:

“It’s mighty queer ter find you here, Buffalo. I didn’t know you war in this yer neck o’ woods. When did ye come, an’ what’s all this business about? War you visitin’ Matt Holmes when ther cabin war sot afire?”

“I was, and I have a pretty long story to tell, Bart. Suppose we defer explanations until I get to your shack and have rested a bit.”

“That proposition is shore all right,” replied Angell. “Ye can’t walk, but I’ll tote ye along ther trail ’thout any trouble.”

“There is no hurry, Bart. Before we leave, I want to make sure that Matt Holmes is dead.”

“Ther galoot I laid out allowed ther war killin’ done,” said Angell, “an’ so I reckon that Holmes war murdered. Whar’ll I look fer him?”

“I saw him go out the front door and start for the brush.”

“Then I’ll shore do some projeckin’ in ther brush.”

Angell went away, and soon returned with the statement that he had found the dead body of the owner of the cabin. The murdered man had been discovered at the mouth of the ravine. He had been shot a number of times. One bullet had penetrated the brain.

Buffalo Bill sighed. “I would have prevented the murder if the fiend had not surprised us. I was shot just before Holmes made for the door.”

As he spoke, the king of scouts noticed that Angell had his hand behind his back. “Found something, Bart?” he said quietly. “Trot it out.”

Angell brought to view a white handkerchief. He had found it near the body of the murdered man.

The king of scouts took the handkerchief and examined it carefully.

In one corner was a Chinese laundry mark.

“I am not a detective, Bart,” said Buffalo Bill, as he scrutinized the mark, “or I might trace this wipe to its owner.”

“It would be a hard job”—with a shake of the head—“fer ther nearest chink joint is in Denver. Hold yer horses,” he added suddenly. “I’m clean off my base. Thar’s one in Taos. It shore opened up six months ago. I war in ther town when ther chink piked in from Austin. I’ll bet a quirt ther rag came from Taos.”

Buffalo Bill put the handkerchief into his breast pocket. “I’ll try Taos if I don’t make the riffle in these mountains. The evidence I want may be on the body of the man you killed. Go back again and search the pockets. Bring everything here.”

Angell went away for the second time, and when he returned he brought a purse containing a few dollars in silver, a knife, a revolver, a plug of tobacco, and a match box with the initials “T. D.” engraved upon an oval.

The king of scouts was disappointed. The match box was the only clew to the identity of the dead man, and even it might prove valueless. The initials might belong to somebody else. The box might have been found or stolen.

“Do you know any one whose name will fit these initials?” he asked.

“Lemme think,” replied Angell, as he stroked his chin. “It’s more’n likely that it stands fer Tom. As fer ‘D’—jumpin’ Jehosophat! Ther galoot is Tom Darke; Lanky Tom, that ther sheriff of Santa Fe was achin’ ter catch when I war down that way three months ago. I seen ther bills describin’ ther critter, an’ thar’s no mistook about it.”

“I reckon you’re right,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “I remember the case. Darke was implicated in a dastardly murder. He was the tool, not the principal. Jared Holmes, a merchant of Santa Fe, was assassinated at his home. It was after dark, and he was sitting in front of an open window. A shot was fired from without, and the bullet entered his brain. A man answering the description of Tom Darke was seen running away from the house; there was other circumstantial evidence connecting him with the crime, and so the officers tried to overhaul him.”

Bart Angell nodded. “Tom war a tinhorn gambler, and ther sheriff told me that, onct whilst how-come-ye-so, Tom let out ter a feller he war drinkin’ with that he war workin’ fer a boss that war shore comin’ in fer all kinds of money.”

Buffalo Bill’s face was grave. “Do you know,” he said, “that Jared Holmes was the brother of Matt Holmes, whose dead body lies out there in the brush? The motive that prompted the killing of Jared was the same that prompted the taking off of Matt. But I won’t go into details now. Help me to get to your cabin, and after a while I’ll talk more.”

But there was no revelation that night. The king of scouts was in a fainting condition when Angell’s cabin was reached. A second dressing to his wound was given, and he was put to bed. Next morning he awoke with mind clear and only a slight physical weakness.

After breakfast, he said: “I realize that you are anxious to know exactly what happened at the cabin of Holmes, and I believe you will work better after I have relieved your curiosity. By this you will understand that there is work for you to do. The bodies down on the flat must be buried. We are many hundreds of miles from a town and a coroner, and so we must act as if we represented the government of the Territory.”

Angell went outside, and presently appeared with a pick and shovel. Resting the implements against the wall, he said as he came forward to sit on a stool by Buffalo Bill’s bunk: “Go ahead. You aire ther judge an’ I’m ther sheriff.”

“I was in Hayes City a few weeks ago,” the king of scouts began, “and was figuring on going up to Laramie for a spell to look after my interests near the place, when an old army friend, Major Kent, met me and asked a service. A young woman, daughter of a West Point classmate, was in town, and it was her desire to proceed at once to the cabin of Matt Holmes, in these hills. The matter was important, and she needed a guide and protector. Would I act in that double capacity? I did not give an answer until I had taken a look at the young woman. Then I capitulated. I have seen many pretty women, Bart, but none prettier than Myra Wilton. And, best of all, she is as good as she is pretty. I would have been a brute if I had not consented to take charge of her and see her safely to her destination.

“Two days sufficed for preparations, and one fine morning, mounted on ponies, we set out across the plains for the mountains. It was not long before I had her full confidence. She told me something that both surprised and vexed me. She had journeyed from her home in Pennsylvania on the say-so of a letter written by a man who was an utter stranger to her. The letter was from Santa Fe, and was signed ‘James Loftus,’ and set forth that, as the attorney of Matt Holmes, her uncle, it was his duty to inform her that her uncle had but a few months to live. He had met with an accident while out hunting, and was now waiting for the end to come. His brother Jared was dead, and she was his only living relative. There was something of the utmost importance, relating to his possessions, which he desired to communicate to her. He dared not trust to the post, for he had an enemy who possessed satanic craft. Therefore, he asked that she come to him, and at once. She could find a guide in Hayes City. The journey was not a hard one, and he hoped to see her before a month had passed.

“I know all the law sharps in Santa Fe, or in the Territory, for that matter, and no one of them answers to the name of Loftus. The statement that Holmes had an enemy also made me regard the letter as shady. But I did not voice my suspicions for fear of alarming Miss Wilton. I would guide her to Holmes’ place, and see to it that she met with no harm. I know now that I made a mistake. Better for her had we turned back and never attempted to cross the mountains.”

“What! Did ye lose her?” queried Angell, with marked concern written on his homely face.

“Yes, I lost her,” replied Buffalo Bill despondingly. “We were within half a mile of her uncle’s cabin, and I had begun to think that my suspicions were groundless, when I heard shots coming from the direction of the cabin. I spurred on ahead, and did not look behind me until I was in sight of the cabin. Then I turned. Miss Wilton was not in sight. Supposing that she had failed to make good time and would soon show herself, I waited.

“Soon a shout from the cabin made me turn and face the door. There stood Matt Holmes, as well as ever. I had known him for years, and when he shouted, ‘Look out, Cody, or they’ll get you,’ I ducked my head, and thus escaped a bullet fired from the brush.

“The next moment I was on the ground. I got to the cabin, and as soon as I entered, Holmes closed the door. ‘My enemy has found me,’ he explained, ‘and we are goin’ to have a picnic.’

“Hurriedly I informed him that his niece was outside, and that she had come in response to the instructions of a lying letter. The statement was no sooner made than we heard a woman’s scream. I was about to dash for the door, when a bullet fired from behind—the back door must have been open—brought me to the floor. As I fell I heard other shots, saw Holmes rush out of doors, and then I fainted. I came to my senses to find the cabin on fire.

“How I got outside in time to prevent cremation I do not know. But I managed it somehow, and in the brush fainted again. I was opening my eyes when you came, Bart. Now you know all I have to tell. The enemy of Matt Holmes has won the first moves in the diabolical game he is playing. He has committed two murders, and he has carried off Myra Wilton.”

“I shore hope he ar’n’t aimin’ to murder her,” said Angell, with a white face.

“It is not likely,” was the confident response. “He has other designs. She is too pretty to kill.” As he spoke a frown came to his brow, and he bit his lip viciously. “Confound this wound of mine. I won’t be able to get about and do business for hours.”

“But yer humble sarvint ain’t in ther same fix,” responded Angell quickly. “I am shore on deck, an’, what’s more, I’m pinin’ ter git on ther trail of ther pizen hounds that’s moseyed off with ther gal.”

“Good!” said the king of scouts, his face clearing instantly. “Start as soon as you like. I am able to look out for myself.”

Ten minutes later Bart Angell was on the flat with pick and shovel. The duty of burial performed, he set out up the ravine which had brought Buffalo Bill and Myra Wilton to the flat.

He had been gone an hour when a tall man, with face covered by a black mask, stole up to the cabin that held the king of scouts.

Through the small window on the side, he peered in and saw Buffalo Bill propped up on the bunk and calmly smoking a pipe.

The door was open, and a few minutes later the man appeared in front of it. In his hand was a revolver, and the king of scouts looked up to gaze into the muzzle of the weapon.

A moment of silence followed:

Then Buffalo Bill spoke coolly: “Looks as if you had the drop.”