Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 10

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Buffalo Bill watched Fighting Dan out of sight with his prisoner. About the latter’s neck a lariat was tied just tight enough so as not to be choking, yet too close to permit of being slipped. The prisoner was allowed to cling to the saddlehorn and run by the side of the easily loping horse—and so they disappeared over the hill.

The scout realized that this hanging talk was all for the prisoner and his friends, and that the spectacular manner of Red Dick’s taking away was also to impress the men on the opposite side of the river, who were raving and yelling themselves hoarse in threats at Fighting Dan.

Buffalo Bill had seen enough of the big gambler to know that he would not seriously injure Red Dick, but had no doubt there would be a near lynching to scare the prisoner.

Turning back on the trail until dark, the scout and Cayuse went into camp, deciding to remain until very early in the morning and then ride for town so as to reach there early in the day. They had turned in scarcely more than an hour when they were awakened by hoofbeats of horses hard pushed. The riders were coming down river at a stiff gallop and directly at the camp of the scout.

“Make um saddle quick,” said Cayuse, springing up. “Him cowboys, Pa-e-has-ka,” continued the Indian boy. “No Injun ride same paleface puncher.”

“I’ll bet it’s Red Dick’s men, who have ridden to the upper ford, and crossed, and are now after Dan and his crowd,” said the scout.

The party went thundering by within a few rods, but did not see Cody and Cayuse. It was the cowboys from Bozeman, and there could be no mistaking their mission. They were shouting ribald threats as they rode, each trying to outdo his comrades in voicing what he would do to Fighting Dan.

“Something of an effort to keep up their courage, I should say,” remarked the scout.

“Ugh! Crows holler loud, all same fly ’way when eagle come,” offered Cayuse.

Once more the neighborhood was quiet and our friends were not disturbed, until just at the break of day Navi aroused the human branch of the expedition by a shrill and prolonged neigh.

Cayuse sprang up and approached his pinto to note the direction the sensitive nostrils were pointed.

When he returned he said, pointing to the west:

“Injun ponies that way. Mebbyso Crow warriors go cross.”

“Well, I guess we don’t care for their company, so we had better canter along ahead.”

As they were about to mount, an Indian pushed through a clump of willows, rode to within ten feet of the scout, stoically refraining from word or glance until he had halted his pony. Then, fixing his piercing eyes on the scout, the Indian said:

“What Pa-e-has-ka do here?”

Buffalo Bill looked steadily at the handsome Indian for a moment, and then answered as he advanced with extended hand:

“To help good Indians like White-man-runs-him against bad palefaces.”

“Ugh! Pa-e-has-ka heap brave paleface. Always friend of red man. Only one like um—Old Curly.”[A]

“Yes, chief, the Boy General is a friend of the Indians, and so is Buffalo Bill. The Great Father at Washington has sent Pa-e-has-ka here to stop the paleface robbers from stealing the red man’s land, blankets, and game.”

“Better stop bad palefaces selling fire-water to red man, too.”

“White-man-runs-him speaks well. His words are true.”

“Pa-e-has-ka heap brave and strong. Great Spirit love Pa-e-has-ka and Old Curly.”

The Indian turned his pony and rode away.

“Him honest Injun,” ventured Little Cayuse.

“Yes, Cayuse; good and brave, and he loves his people.”

At Bozeman the first man they saw that morning was Price. He was apparently in great haste and did not notice the scout and Little Cayuse. They rode into a stable, and Cayuse immediately started after Price on foot, at Buffalo Bill’s request.

The scout went to the hotel and waited; but he had hardly seated himself near the window and was preparing for a good smoke, when a young man hurried in and asked the clerk for W. F. Cody.

The scout overheard and answered.

“A note for you, sir,” the young man said.

He handed the scout a sealed envelope and went out without waiting for a reply or giving Cody an opportunity to ask questions.

The note read:

“I am in trouble at the Mason & Moore ranch. Can you not come to me?

—— ——, M. D.”

It was the signature of the young physician who had so favorably impressed the scout when he attended Hickok.

The scout made hurried inquiries and learned that the Mason & Moore ranch lay thirty miles to the northeast, up toward Crazy Mountains. He decided to wait until noon for Cayuse; if the Piute had not arrived at that time he would go alone.

Cayuse had not returned and at 1 p. m. the scout ordered Bear Paw saddled, and departed, after leaving word with the clerk for Little Cayuse when he should come.

If Price and his men had planned to first separate and then destroy the band of Uncle Sam’s workers, their plans were certainly working to perfection. Skibo and Nomad were caring for Wild Bill at the abandoned mine; Buffalo Bill was on a blind errand into a strange country, while Cayuse had disappeared in the wake of the chief villain of them all.

Buffalo Bill would have had his suspicions aroused by a message from almost any other person in the town, but he had formed an opinion of the young physician that was wholly favorable to the man.

He had left the town an hour behind when two men set out in the same direction.

Buffalo Bill passed a tumble-down hut with slovenly surroundings, but did not pause. When he had galloped ten miles beyond he was surprised by the boom of three heavy guns back in the direction of Bozeman. They were fired at intervals of about thirty seconds.

The scout wondered what it could mean, for he recognized the voice of an artillery piece—it was not a blast, as the uninitiated might suspect.

At mid-afternoon he was approaching a pass in a rough section of country, and the trail showed little usage. The sides of the ravine were broken and precipitous, while the banks of a small stream along which the trail ran were thickly clothed in willow. The scout, half instinctively, looked to his guns, and rode erect and alert in his saddle.

Somehow those three heavy reports had put a suspicion in his mind. Bear Paw was nervous. He pranced along the narrow trail uneasily, with sensitive ears darting forward and back to catch every sound, and nostrils breathing a half snort at every breath.

Suddenly the intelligent animal sprang forward so quickly as to almost unseat a rider who had never been thrown, and as he did so several rifle shots rang out and bullets whistled about the head of the scout.

The shots had been fired from both sides of the trail by men secreted in the dense growth. The nervousness of the horse had for the moment saved the scout’s life. The horse skimmed along the trail like a bird on the wing as the scout wheeled in the saddle with rifle ready to greet any who might try for a second shot.

In that position the scout was illy prepared for the next dastardly move of the men bent on taking his life.

A rope suddenly lifted ahead of the horse. The animal tripped over it, and plunged headlong down an embankment where river and trail veered sharply, and its rider was hurled far over, landing in several feet of muddy water and struggling to the surface half stunned by the impact.

The horse regained its feet and limped up the bank. The man swept the water from his eyes, and started to follow the horse, when four rifles clicked and a hoarse voice shouted:

“Say your prayers while I’m countin’ twenty, Buffalo Bill, for then you die.”