Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 6

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“Waugh! Of all ther sky-whoopin’ heifercats, that thar Hide-rack is ther plumb wust. Ther cantaknerous cuss has nigh shook ther liver clean outer my ’natomy, er rip snortin’ through ther mud all ther way f’m Virginy City. Ther pesky critter hain’t been doin’ er thing but layin’ on fat an’ a-storin’ up devilment fer more’n er month, while I been er cooperatin’ f’m er tumble down ther mounting. I say, Buffler, whar’s that onery pard, Wild Bill? I’m jest er itchin’ ter git my claw dogs outer his flipper. Whar’s Hickok?”

Old Nomad, Buffalo Bill’s trapper pard had “lit” after a long lay-off to nurse the injuries received through an accident. He arrived at Bozeman the next day after the fire, and lost no time in locating the scout.

“Nick, old pard, I’ve got bad news for you,” the scout answered. “The hotel was partly blown up night before last, and the section our room was in was knocked to splinters. Hickok was in the room asleep at the time, or at least we left him there, and he has not been seen since. The ruins have not cooled sufficiently so that we can find the body.”

The bluff and rough old trapper, who loved a fight and feared nothing, dropped back forlornly, and swept the perspiration from his brow with rough palm.

“You don’t mean it, Buffler! It jest cain’t be so! No, no, Buffler, our true-blue pard Hickok warn’t born ter be blowed up by a coward skunk. No, sir, Buffler, Wild Bill hain’t dead, an’ he hain’t been dead. When Hickok dies it’ll be a honorable death—er facin’ ther moosic an’ er gun in ’is fist.”

Old Nomad bounced out of his chair and out of his grief, ready for business, having convinced himself that his pard still lived.

“I feels it in my bones, Buffler, thet Hickok is er goin’ ter show up—hat, taps, an’ britches—et jest ther proper minuit ter save some of our scalps, same’s he allers does.”

“Good for you, Nick! Your confidence renews my hope. Let’s get busy with the work in hand and be prepared to welcome our Laramie pard properly when he comes back. I’m prime glad to see you in harness again, Nick, and I am anxious to introduce our new pard to you.”

“Gut er new pard, Buffler?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of er chap?”

“Oh, a light-complexioned little fellow, who joined us for his health.”

“What’s his name?”

“We call him ‘Skibo.’”

“Waal, you knows yer own bus’ness best, Buffler, but this here outfit hain’t no horspital corps, nor no reesort for nussin’ babies. I sh’d think ther place fer er consumptive wuz in er home somewhar, whar ther smell er powder wouldn’t make ’im faint.”

“He stands hearty victuals first-rate, Nick. I have seen him turn pale only once, and that was when a dead greaser came swimming down the river after him.”

“Waal, I’m glad ter know a dead greaser c’n swim, fer I hain’t never seen er live one what could. Whar is ther new pard—an’ thet thar redskin papoose?”

“Little Cayuse and Skibo have ridden out to a ranch to see the games to-day. A chap named Carson is celebrating his wedding, and is giving the boys a blow-out and a programme of sports. He offers good prizes for best riding, roping, tying, shooting, jumping, etc.”

“Why didn’t you go, Buffer?”

“I preferred to stay here to see if I couldn’t locate the body of Hickok.”

“Waal, yer can’t, ’cause he hain’t hyar! Yer mought jest ez well quit yer mopin’ an’ come erlong.”

“Are you going, Nick?”

“Shore! The’ hain’t goin’ ter be no prizes ter waste thet yer Uncle Nick can gobble onter. Not noways ef Nick knows hisself, an’ I think he do.”

“Very well; I’ll go with you.”

At the Carson ranch were gathered about three hundred miners and cowpunchers to partake of the hospitality of one of their number, swear allegiance to the new bride, and strive for the prizes in the day’s contests.

Out of respect for the bride’s request, the courage juice was indulged in moderately, and Buffalo Bill thought it about as orderly a crowd of the kind as he had ever seen.

The events were well under way when the scout and old Nomad arrived, but the latter immediately made inquiries regarding his entry to the events. They found Cayuse and Skibo, and the colored pard was introduced to Nomad by Buffalo Bill, who said:

“Nick, I want you to shake hands with our new pard, Skibo. Skibo, this is old Nomad, of whom you have heard us often speak. Nick, when you shake his hand, go easy, or you may hurt him.”

The trapper stared in amazement at the huge negro, who had been described to him as a light-complexioned little weakling.

“Waugh! Little—as er nine-y’ar-old buffler bull! Light-complexioned—as ther bottom ov er chimney pot!”

This was sort of exclamatory soliloquy, but the trapper was none the less hearty in greeting the grinning colored man when he got around to it.

“How are ye, Skibo? Buffler told me ter look fer er consumptive cuss, an’ you s’prised me. So you turned pale when you saw a dead greaser er swimmin’?”

“Yar, yar! Dat’s what Ah done. Ah specs Ah was whiter’n you be fer ’bout two whole minutes—an’ dat wa’n’t much of a day for gittin’ white, nohow.”

“Lookahyar! Don’t yer go fer ter hingin’ on my pinkan’-white complexion, ’cause yo’re so blamed dusky er smut coal would make er white mark on yore skin.”

“Yar, yar! Mars’ Nick. Yo’ shore is er white-libered, delekit-lookin’ blossom.”

The grinning pair, still shooting nonsense at each other, grasped hands, and old Nomad, who had a grip like the jaws of a rock crusher, found his match.

Nick and Skibo were bound to be good friends from that hour. There was no color line among Buffalo Bill’s pards, and Skibo felt that he was considered an equal.

Little Cayuse greeted Nomad with usual stoical mien, and remarked with twinkling eyes:

“Hide-rack heap fool mule; Navi all same pigeon—go like bullet.”

“Huh! Yeow little yaller rascal, Hide-rack will run over yore measly pinto some day; see if ’e don’t. Hide-rack’s ther best anermile south o’ ther old Missou, ’cept Bear Paw.”

“Ugh! Heap bones! Stumble much, fall down mountain, break Nomad neck. Ugh!”

The party stood near the corral watching a pony race as the entries scored down to the mark and were to sweep away across the plain for a mile. Forty men were in saddle in the race. Others had galloped far down the course, and few were left about the ranch.

Buffalo Bill and Carson, the proprietor, were cantering leisurely down the field, and the new bride had climbed to the seat of a prairie schooner to watch the contest, rather than to remain longer in the saddle.

“Tell yer what I’ll do, Piute; I’ll race yer down behind ther crowd ter see ther run, an’ if yer git thar fust I’ll buy yer ther purtiest young cannon in Bozeman.”

“Ugh!” acquiesced Cayuse, and the pair mounted and rode away.

Skibo was tired of riding, and disposed his form against the corral fence in as comfortable position as possible. He heard an uproar among the cows and horses within, but before he could arise to investigate there came a terrific crash, and a great Texan bull burst from the inclosure.

Excited first by the shouting and shooting, and then infuriated by the glimpse of darting ponies and the cheers of the men as the field got away, the animal in its frantic plunging had broken loose, dashed through the herd, and swept the fence away like a row of jackstraws.

The first thing that caught the brute’s eye when he had gained liberty was a straw stack. He darted at it with lowered head, and amused himself for a moment by goring it. Then he turned and saw the white-covered wagon with the frightened young woman upon it, and dangling from one of the wheels the bright red pontiac of a miner.

The animal had really considered the straw stack a joke, and seemed to be at play, but that red coat set his passions aflame. With a maddened roar he pawed the earth and sent the gravel flying high in air.

Several cowpunchers far down the field heard the commotion and recognized its import at once. They put spurs to their ponies and tore madly back, yet they knew they could not hope to reach roping or even shooting distance before the fierce brute would charge the schooner with its helpless cargo—the fair bride they had come to honor.

The cowboys’ yells had attracted the attention of others, and soon the course swarmed with excited men and horses, racing toward the scene of pending tragedy.

The bellowing of the bull rumbled faintly above that of pounding hoofs.

These brave men of the plains, in a mission of life and death, drove the rowels into the sides of their steeds.

And then the foremost saw the brute charge, in spite of their yells to turn his attention to them. But even as they looked at the flying bull they saw a human being bound out from the corral across the path of the bull.

It was Skibo!

There the giant negro stood, with tense muscles, slightly crouching, facing the oncoming animal, unarmed.

The bloodshot eyes of the bull caught the new object in its path, and the brute slowed down for reconnaissance. It came to a dead stop within ten feet of the human form which disputed its progress.

But the pause was brief, for the colored man darted in like a flash, and seized the wide-spreadin’, needle-like horns of the bull.

Then began such a struggle for mastery between man and beast as the West had never seen.

It was not the battle of powder, and lead, and steel against brute flesh, but the conflict of brawn and brawn.

The animal in a perfect fury tried to hurl its antagonist off, and to trample, and gore the powerful man, who stooped to no form of torture to win the mastery.

Forward and back they surged, the negro’s great neck muscles standing out as he clung to the horns of the bull, and gradually forced the shaggy head to an acute angle, the nose pointing to one side and the horns another.

All the giant’s weight and great strength were thrown into this feat, and, like bands of steel, the muscles of the bare, walnut-colored arms held every inch gained.

The nose of the brute was now near the earth, and in that unnatural position both seeing and breathing were difficult. The animal’s breath came in hoarse, wheezy snorts, and he staggered as he plunged about, always endeavoring to throw off the foe.

How long could the brave man hold such terrific strain?

The terrified bride, with clasped hands, forgot her own peril in her anxiety for the safety of her rescuer.

The approaching cowboys dared not shoot for fear of injuring the negro. With whirling lariat they dashed nearer, but their aid was not needed.

With a superhuman effort Skibo had suddenly wrenched the animal’s nose upward until the bull lost its equilibrium and plunged sidewise to land feet up and horns driven into the ground.

Skibo had slipped one hand from horn to nostrils as the animal fell, and then, standing on the horns, with both hands holding the panting snout, he had the bull helpless and at his mercy.

In that position the colored man waited for the cowboys to rope the beast, and then modestly attempted to steal away.

But his escape this time was out of the question. Poor Skibo dearly paid for his heroism by becoming the object of such hero worship, and cheers, and slaps, and handshakes that he heartily wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

And to cap the climax the bride came forward, and, after thanking him in sweetest way and words, and while tears chased each other down her cheeks, and admiring miners and cowboys stood with uncovered heads, she unfastened from her throat a massive gold brooch, and with her own hands pinned it to Skibo’s trembling shirt front—“to remind you,” she told him, “of one who will ever and often think gratefully of you.”