Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 11

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After Buffalo Bill and Little Cayuse had left their pards and the prisoner near the old mine in the mountains, old Nomad found time hanging heavily on his hands. He felt just a little hurt that the scout had not selected him for a companion on this trip instead of the Piute.

“Waugh! Ov all ther tarnation picnics yourn truly ever stacked up erginst this is ther plumb wust—jest leanin’ up ergin er rock fer erbout er month o’ Sundays ter see ’f ther pesky thing rises er sinks.

“I’ve been propped up here for two hull hours sence Buffler rode out er sight, an’ I hain’t so much ez seen er bird. I’m gwine ter huntin’ rattlers round this hyar mounting, an’ see ’f I can’t stir up some ’xcitement.”

“Are you uneasy, Nomad?” asked Hickok.

“Now, lookahere, pard! D’yu ever yank er catfish out on ther sand an’ then watch ’im flop? Waal, whut d’yu think erbout his bein’ oneasy an’ lonesome?”

“Why don’t you and Skibo wrestle?”

“Huh? Who—Skibo an’ me? Say, Hick, yer jokin’. When I wrassles I want a man ’cordin ’ter my strength, an’ science, an’ good looks. Now, thet thar Skibo, he ain’t in my class, noways. He might wrassle with a bull thet girted ’bout eight feet, but ’f I sh’d git holt er him I sh’d break ’im in two.”

“Yah, yah! Mars’ Hickok, an’ den dar’d be two niggahs in de rock pile.”

“Waal, I’ll be gumdastercated!”

This exclamation caused the others to look at Nomad, who was staring, half wildly and half happily, out across the plain. They followed his gaze and saw three Indians on ponies just emerging from the thick growth beyond the lift of a terrace, half a mile to the west.

Another and another followed, until fifteen were in view, riding eastward in a leisurely manner.

“Why’n ther blue kinks o’ my curly hair, couldn’t them thar pesky reds ha’ come this way an’ started sumthin’? Sufferin’ wild cats! How my muscles ache, an’ how my brain itches! Say, Hick, whar d’yu s’pose them pesky redskins air goin’?”

“I could tell better, Nomad, if I knew what brand of reds they are.”

“Waal, s’posin’ they’re Crows, whar they goin’?”

“Home.”

“S’posin’ they’re Sioux?”

“Then they have probably been into mischief or are looking for it.”

“Thet’s jest what I nachally concluded—them thar red hoss thiefs ain’t round hyar jest ’cause they’re prowlin’, but ’cause sumbuddy wants um hyar. Now, I figgers thet they’ve been sent for by some o’ them Bozeman scoundrels an’ thet they’re goin’ up ’mong them buttes jest below ther town ter wait fer dark.”

“Perhaps that’s it, Nomad,” answered the Laramie man wearily.

“I say, Hick; you’n Skibo ’r’ all right; I believe I’ll git Hide-rack an’ sashay over thet way, an’ see what I can diskiver.”

“Well, don’t get into trouble till Cody comes back.”

“No, no! I won’t. Hick,” promised Nomad, in childish glee at being able to get away so easily.

Nomad’s evident pleasure at the prospect of some sort of excitement was a relief to Hickok, who, as well as he liked the veteran trapper, tired of the latter’s fretting if in any way restrained.

Old Nomad put spurs to Hide-rack, and tore across the little plain as though his life depended upon overtaking the party of Indians, when, in fact, he did not intend to come in contact with them at all, or even to have them see him. In this he blundered.

Half an hour after leaving his companions among the hills, Nomad rounded a rift of rock and came into a little vale thickly grown with willows. He leaned over his horse’s neck to scrutinize the signs of the passing party of Indians as he entered the growth, and then felt himself suddenly jerked from the saddle to land sprawling on his back, and a couple of brawny Indians held him there and proceeded to bind him, as Nomad expressed it—“hoof an’ tail.”

“Howlin’ heifercats!” shouted Nomad, as he struggled with his captors. “What d’yu red mummies reckon you’d hitched onter, anyhow? Guess you don’t know ole Nomad, du ye?”

This was grunted out disjointedly as the trapper wrenched and fought with his captors.

“By ther great horn spoon an’ er dozen little ladles, I’ll wring ther dirty necks ov nine er ’leven o’ yer pesky heifercats!”

Old Nomad was wasting his breath and strength, for in spite of the terrific fight he put up the two braves gradually overpowered him, and he was finally helpless, with hands and feet in the firmly knotted loops of a lariat.

“Ugh!” grunted one of them. “Heap hard nut to crack.”

“Yer hain’t got ’im cracked yit, nuther, yer red loafer. I’ll be fishin’ in ther Yallerstun when yore great gran’-childern be er chasin’ ghosts er foxes in ther happy huntin’ groun’s.”

“Big tongue; many wiggle!” said the other Indian solemnly.

Nomad strained savagely at his bonds in anger.

“I won’t stand any more o’ yer sass, ye b’iled apology fer a decent heathen. Take off this rawhide, an’ gi’ me a chance at both o’ ye, an’ I’ll knock ye inter sixteen kinds o’ cocked hats in jest erbout ’leven shakes ov er little lamb’s last piece o’ mutton.”

Other Indians came, and the trapper at least realized that he was a prisoner, and that in spite of his taunting he could not draw from them why he had been thus treated or who had ordered these indignities.

The trapper was placed under guard, and passed a weary day, while all the Indians but the one who sat smoking with a rifle across his knees departed.

“Don’t that beat ole split-huff hisself?” mourned Nomad, as he saw the redskins depart. “Only that pesky cigar sign stuck up thar on er rock ter ’muse myself with. Hey, Indian! Why don’t yer say suthin’ er do suthin’ ter keep comp’ny from gittin’ homesick? Say, yer red-skinned mummy, I’ll give yer the fust shot if you’ll come inter a game ov take turns as er target.”

No answer.

“What yer say, red, do ut? Aw! Ye wooden head, why don’t ye grunt?”

Nomad subsided again. He was disgusted with himself and everybody else. He had started out to hunt excitement, and here he was with nothing to do and no prospect of anything happening right away. It was worse than watching over Hickok and the prisoner—then he could smoke.

But early in the evening the Indians returned and with them a white man. The latter kept beyond the range of Nomad’s vision in the bushes, except for occasional glimpses as the party moved about.

After a long confab with the Indians, the white man, with a handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, came for a look at the prisoner.

“Uv all ther white-faced heifercats! I’d give er nine-dollar bill ter git er paw on ye, ye white-livered coyote. Yer too low ter ’sociate with ther meanest redskin this side ther river Styx. Say, if you’ll cut this hyar rope I’ll fix yer in er minyit so’s you wouldn’t know yerself—’thout any rag tied over yer face.”

The fellow made no reply, but said loud enough so that Nomad could hear:

“No, it isn’t Buffalo Bill, but he’s one of the gang; dispose of him.”

Nomad laughed uproariously.

“Haw! haw! haw! Ther reds took me fer Buffler! Waal, thet sets me up some ’f not more. Guess Buffler’d feel complermented. I suttinly hopes I live long ernough ter tell that to ’im.”