Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 9

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Everything possible for the comfort of Wild Bill was done by his pards. Little Cayuse on the fleet Navi made all speed to Bozeman for a doctor, while Nomad and Skibo prepared a shelter in the open air, and the injured man was removed from the foul atmosphere of the old mine.

Buffalo Bill did not send for the sheriff, because he had already planned to “put the kibosh” on the chief county officer in the general round-up which he hoped would soon follow. These men were not to be tried before a local court. In fact, he had cause to distrust the court itself. Some things he had seen had led him to suspect that the local judge was in league with Price and the others. And as for a jury drawn from the countryside, Price had furnished liquor for too many of them for the scout to take any chances.

Buffalo Bill was aware that the most dangerous element of the “ring” was in Washington. There the plots were laid and such men as Price located where they could do the most good—or bad, as viewed from the standpoint of right and honesty. If other stations were as rotten at the core as this one there was work ahead for a long time to come.

Buffalo Bill, like Kit Carson and other famous scouts, had learned to sympathize with the red men and to befriend these simple people in every way possible.

The prisoner, known as Bloody Ike, refused to hold any conversation with the scout at first, venting his feelings in voluminous tirades and heaping vituperation upon them.

Then Skibo lost his temper at some vile abuse, and, seizing the villain by the belt and shoulder, raised him above his head, as though he was about to hurl him over the precipice.

Ike lost his nerve and begged for mercy. He was lowered to the ground and the powerful grip released only when he had promised to cease his abusive language.

The doctor came and pronounced Hickok on the road to recovery. He had suffered external injuries, and the lack of attention and resulting fever had done the rest. With his temperature at nearly normal, his mind cleared up, and all he needed was care and light food for a day or two.

The scout was impressed by the quiet earnestness of the professional man. There was much in his bearing to inspire confidence. The scout wondered why this university-bred youth had chosen such a remote field.

Beyond earshot of Bloody Ike the physician asked why the man was bound. The scout frankly told him, and was rewarded by much valuable information concerning the working of this gang of gamblers, thieves, and cutthroats. The physician said the better element of the people feared for their property and lives if they openly opposed these thugs, of whom Price was the acknowledged head.

Before departing the physician assured the scout that he should anxiously await a successful outcome of the latter’s mission, and said that if any information of value to the pards was discovered he would find some means to communicate with them.

It may be interesting to note here, while we are awaiting the recovery of Wild Bill, that the trial of Red Dick had ended in acquittal and the cattlemen were consequently jubilant and proposed to celebrate in honor of the event. The sheepmen and their friends withdrew, but many threats were made, and everybody realized that the end was far away and might yet embrace many tragedies.

Red Dick proposed to celebrate in his own way. He made a great amount of loud talk about hunting down and filling Fighting Dan with cold lead.

“I’ll fix him so he can’t swim,” raved the would-be terror of the town.

Fighting Dan was said to be hanging out near Three Fork, and his friends hastened to send him word that Red Dick was on his trail.

Red Dick first proceeded to organize a gang of his satellites to accompany him to Three Fork—“to see him ‘do up’ Fighting Dan.”

A dozen men on horseback galloped away on their avowed mission of murder, Red Dick dashing ahead and proclaiming in fearful language the things he would do to Fighting Dan. Some of those who knew Red Dick best declared that he was blowing his horn much louder now than when he considered himself within hearing distance of Dan Grey.

Buffalo Bill, standing on the heights and looking northward, saw a party of horsemen galloping away from Bozeman to the northwest. The scout’s interest was aroused at once. He wondered where this strong party of riders were going and what could be their mission. He could see an occasional white puff of smoke and knew that the men were firing.

The scout’s first thought was that it was a party sent out by Price to run down his own—Buffalo Bill’s—party. If that was the case they were on the wrong trail at the start.

Watching the party well out of sight, the scout returned to the camp ground and ordered Cayuse to saddle Bear Paw and Navi and prepare the bags for a long ride. He told Nomad and Skibo to keep constant watch over Hickok and the prisoner until his return; then briefly outlined what he had seen and his decision to look into the matter.

In half an hour the scout and Little Cayuse were galloping northward at a brisk pace, keeping well to the westward of town, so as not to attract attention.

They forded the Gallatin, then rode along the valley, keeping the river in view. The scout hoped by hard riding to get within view of the horsemen before dark.

The sun was barely two hours high, and from a slight elevation where they had pulled in to allow the horses to breathe the scout was scanning the plain through a field glass.

“Ah!” he exclaimed at last. “I was searching too far for them. Cayuse, I think we are in for some fun. Our men are trying to cross the river, and the ford is high and running wild. I guess they must have had a cloudburst to the northward yesterday or last night. Those fellows are attempting to reach our side of the river, but I don’t think they have seen us.”

“Ugh! Mebbe so we got near in cottonwood, watch um.”

“It’s a good notion, Cayuse,” answered the scout, reining Bear Paw toward the river bottom, along which were dense thickets of willow and cottonwood.

A mile farther on they halted in the thick green growth from which they could watch the manœuvres of the party on the opposite shore. Several ponies were dripping on the bank, as though their riders had attempted to stem the current and had given it up.

A group of half a dozen were working over one man, occasionally holding him up by the heels.

“Him all same drink too much,” observed Cayuse.

The scout smiled, but he was watching something far up river. At first he thought it a cabin that had been swept away. Then he decided that it was a great tree that had been uprooted and torn from its footing.

Nearer it came in the raging river, and, finally, as the party on the opposite side discovered it, they began dashing about, shouting and gesticulating, as if apparently they had formed some plan to utilize the tree in crossing.

The scout and Cayuse were interested but unseen spectators, and at last they saw what these cowboys hoped to do.

In the middle of the river was a jutting ledge. If the tree, which was whirling in mid-stream, would strike the ledge and swing around they would attempt to rope the end next to them. If successful and the sweep of the great lever could be held, they could cling to rope and tree and reach the shoal water on the opposite side.

The floating tree could not have behaved better. It struck the ledge branches foremost, slid along until more than half its length had passed the rock, and then paused, the current gradually swinging the roots toward the bank on which the men were waiting.

With a cheer several cowboys rode into the river with ready riatas. As the butt swung slowly but steadily toward them, two coils swept through the air and settled over a stout root which had been broken. Galloping up the bank, the men made the ropes fast in a clump of cottonwoods, and were ready for another attempt to cross the river.

The current was increasing every moment, and even though the worst part of the torrent was spanned it was no easy job to gain the other side.

Up to this time Buffalo Bill had not discovered that he recognized any of the party, but now a tall man rode down on a rangy sorrel horse and headed across.

“Him all same Red Dick,” said Little Cayuse.

“So it is!” exclaimed the scout. “Now, I can surmise what they are here for. Red has either escaped or been acquitted. If the former he is making a getaway. If the latter he is hunting for Fighting Dan to get square.”

Red Dick chose the up-river side of the lariats and reached the roots of the tree in good order, his horse swimming nobly, but it was a struggle to round the roots and gain the trunk, where it seemed harder work for the tired animal. The water sucked under the great log and threatened to pull both horse and rider down, too.

Then Red Dick clambered from the saddle to the tree trunk holding the bridle and both relieving the animal of his weight and helping its progress by the rein.

At the bushy top Red Dick’s progress was slow and difficult. He clambered over and through the branches, clinging to the rein and handicapping the horse. He had nearly reached the top, and was preparing for the last desperate struggle, when there came a startling interruption that promised disaster.

All eyes had been fixed on the progress of Red Dick, and no one had seen another tree which came sweeping along on the side of the river next the party of cowboys.

As Red Dick, clinging with one hand to the branches and with the other to his horse’s bridle, was about to launch himself into the saddle, the second derelict struck the taut lariats, and carried the roots of the first tree downstream, while the top in which Red Dick was perched swept upstream against the current at ten miles an hour.

The horse was swept under and Red Dick doused to the top of his sombrero. But he clung to the branches and came up sputtering and gasping.

The horse arose and gained the bank, where it began to crop the grass unconcernedly.

The anchor ropes had snapped under the strain, and the second tree had sailed on, but the first still clung to the rock, only it had changed position, and, instead of being across the current, the heavier root held its place downstream, and the top bobbed up and down in the washing waves above the rocks.

There Red Dick clung desperately and bellowed for help. The water forced him in among the branches, so that he could not pull himself up over them and gain anything like a comfortable position on top. And now and then the surging waters seemed to delight in lifting the butt and roots of the tree and ducking the red topknot of Dick in the murky depths.

At this stage a second party of horsemen appeared at the ford, on the side where the scout and Cayuse sat watching the fun. It was Fighting Dan and half a dozen well-armed sheepmen who had evidently set out for town.

They took in the situation and Red Dick’s predicament. Fighting Dan slid from his saddle and haw-hawed long and loud, slapping his buckskins and shaking his head in glee. His men, too, joined in a merry chorus, but kept their fingers on the triggers of their rifles, for across the river were twice their number of the enemy.

“So yer lookin’ fer me, are ye, Red?” yelled Dan, his voice echoing above the roar of the angry waters.

Red couldn’t reply just then, for one of his periodical duckings was coming.

When he came up choking, Fighting Dan resumed:

“Better look out er ye’ll put out ther fire in that ole red pate o’ yourn! Say, Red, honest now, what makes ye go in swimmin’ when ther drink is so muddy? Take yer medercine coollike, Red, ’cause yer know arter er chap shoots up his betters an’ gits ’quitted, fate allers does this ter ’im, ter cool ’im off.

“An’, then, ergin, Red, if yer can part comp’ny with that thar tree long ernough ter come over hyar I’ll lend ye some dry ammernution fer yer gun, an’ we’ll play high rooster in ther grass.”

Red Dick made no reply to the taunts of Dan. He was in no position to offer offense or defense. He was becoming tired and hopeless. He could see that no move had been made toward his rescue; in fact, there seemed nothing the men could do.

Fighting Dan rode down in the water to his horse’s sides and shouted to Red Dick:

“Say, Red, blamed ’f I b’lieve yer was born ter be drownded—yer’d look better hangin’. An’ I hates ter set hyar an’ see yer miss yer fate. What yer say, Red, had ye druther slop under an’ die now like er man er come ershore an’ take yer charnces with me?”

Red Dick gasped: “Save me!”

Fighting Dan slowly uncoiled his lariat, then he watched the loops as he arranged them immediately, and then turned to Dick.

“I hates ter do it an’ I hates not ter, so thar ye be, Red. I’m goin ’ter try ye once an’ ’f I git ye, yer hangs. Thet’s fair, ain’t it?”

The riata was swirling slowly about the dark man’s head.

The rope seethed through the air, and settled about Red’s neck, and was drawn taut, just as he was going under again.

Fighting Dan wheeled his horse and dug his spurs deep. The animal splashed furiously up the bank, while the swirling body of Red Dick at the end of the lariat fairly made the water boil.

Fighting Dan slid from his horse, loosened the coils about Red’s neck, threw the half-conscious man over on his face, and gave him a resounding slap between the shoulders.

“You shore missed drowndin’ by ther skin o’ yer neck,” remarked Dan, as the gasping, nearly suffocated man showed signs of reviving.

“Ye see ’f I hadn’t skun yer neck with ther rope ye’d been swimmin’ fer Davy Jones’ place o’ business now.”

“What ye goin’ ter do with me?” croaked Red.

“Yer fate ain’t fully settled yet, Red, but I shore think hangin’ is much more becomin’ ter yore style er beauty; don’t yer, Red?”