Читать книгу Buffalo Bill, Peacemaker; Or, On a Troublesome Trail - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 3

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Fate was in a very capricious mood when Buffalo Bill and his pards carried their activities into the Lone Star State. They galloped over the plains and plunged full tilt into one of the most surprising misplays ever made by that arrant gamester—Chance.

There was a triangle of blunders, and it so happened that there was a pard in each corner, ready to take advantage of what came his way and turn misfortune into fortune for Cattleman Perry, his daughter Hattie, and a worthy cowboy of the name of Dunbar. The powerful clique of cattle barons were beaten at their own game of freeze out—and for this they had the scout and his pards to thank.

Buffalo Bill dropped into his corner of the complication on the wide grazing grounds, en route to the town of Hackamore, where he was to join Wild Bill, old Nomad, the trapper, who had shared many dangers with the scout, Baron von Schuitzenhauser, his Dutch pard, and Little Cayuse, his Indian trailer. And when it is said that he “dropped” into the complication, the statement is to be taken literally.

It was a night, a night made brilliant by moon and stars. The scout was two days from Portales, New Mexico, having diverged from the trail taken by his pards in order to halt for half a day in the town of Texico.

Buffalo Bill was off the trail, a plainsman having shown him a short cut that was to save many miles of saddle work. As Bear Paw forged ahead at a slow, steady gallop, the scout rocked gently in his saddle, half dozing.

He did not see the stovepipe that rose out of the ground in front of him, nor did he see the little ridgelike lifting of the earth adjacent to the stovepipe.

Bear Paw saw the pipe, however, and to evade it attempted to cross the small elevation. Intelligent horse though he was, how was he to know that elevation was not solid earth?

The black charger was in for a surprise. It was sprung with demoralizing suddenness.

Two strides carried Bear Paw over the high point of the ridge; a third stride brought a crash under his rear hoofs, and the after part of his body slumped downward.

A startled yell, seemingly coming out of the very earth, smote on the scout’s ears.

Caught at a disadvantage by the accident, Buffalo Bill was thrown backward out of his saddle and clear of the struggling horse.

Bear Paw’s front hoofs were on solid ground and, with a prodigious effort, he saved himself from sinking and clambered to safety beyond the deceptive ridge. But the scout dropped through the breach, grabbed at a log rafter, missed it, and fell in a huddle for a distance of ten feet.

He brought up on all fours, jarred through and through and blinking in a cloud of dust and a flood of lamplight. A clutter of dirt and broken poles lay around him.

The transformation from an easy gallop over the cool, open plain to this underground hole with its light and dust, had been so abrupt that the scout was taken at a loss.

But he was not the only one taken at a loss. In front of him, as the flurry of dust was wafted aside, he saw a strapping figure in hickory shirt, homespun trousers and cowhide boots—a figure topped with a mop of red hair, under which was a lean, leathery face.

The face of the figure was blank. Two washed-out blue eyes stared at the scout; and the scout, on hands and knees, stared back.

“Who in blazes are ye?” demanded the red-headed man, all at once finding his voice.

“A stranger and a traveler,” answered the scout, the ludicrous nature of the situation gradually appealing to him. “A man who—er—a-tchoo!”

“What d’ye mean by knockin’ a hole in the roof an’ slammin’ in on me like this?” went on the other, coming out of his surprise with a manner distinctly hostile.

The scout picked himself up slowly, felt of his bruises, and gave vent to a grewsome laugh.

“If you think, amigo, that I meant to knock a hole in your roof,” said he, “you’ve another guess coming. If I had planned to pay you a visit I wouldn’t have gone about it like this, would I?”

“How do I know who ye are, or what ye’d do?” fumed the other, far and away more savage than the scout thought the mishap warranted. “I don’t want no truck with ye, anyways. If ye didn’t allow ter pay me a visit, an’ if ye ain’t here from ch’ice, then yore next move is ter git out as quick as ye come in. Them’s the stairs”—he waved a hand toward a ladder that led upward to a flat door in the roof—“an’ at the same time we says hello, we also says good-by. Start yerself.”

“I’m not inclined to stay here any longer than you want to have me,” answered the scout, “but I landed with something of a jolt. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just catch my breath before I try the stairs.”

“It ain’t all the same ter me,” barked the man. “I want ye ter go, an’ I want ye ter go ter oncet! With this ter back up the invite, I reckon ye won’t stand none on the order ter hike.”

The red-haired man made a swipe at his belt and lifted a hairy hand with a six-shooter. Buffalo Bill looked him in the eye and then coolly sat down on a two-legged stool that happened to be handy.

“I’ve heard a good deal about Texas hospitality,” said he, “but you’re giving it a hardware twist that I don’t like. And when I don’t like a thing,” he added significantly, “I’m apt to make it pretty plain.”

“Ye kain’t run in any rannikaboo on me,” snorted the red-haired person, jabbing the air with the point of his gun. “Ye say yer drappin’ in was a accident. I’m lettin’ it go at that, an’ givin’ ye a chance ter depart without any fireworks. An’ I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about the damage ye done ter the dugout, nuther. Pick up yore hat an’ scatter. I’ll count three. When I say ‘one,’ ye’ll reach fer the hat; when I say ‘two,’ ye’ll be on the stairs; an’ when I say ‘three,’ ye’ll either be through that door in the roof or I’ll drop ye in yer tracks.”

The barbarous methods of this red-haired man were utterly uncalled for. He was showing a spirit that needed taming.

Buffalo Bill dropped his eyes to the litter on the floor. His hat lay there, and from under the brim of the hat showed two inches of revolver-muzzle. One of the scout’s six-shooters had been jarred from his belt and had fallen under the sombrero.

“One!”

The word was a yelp, and the blued barrel of the Texan’s gun looked the scout full in the face.

“All right,” said Buffalo Bill cheerily.

He reached for his hat with both hands. But only one hand picked up the hat; the other caught the handle of the six-shooter.

Then something happened which the Texan had not been looking for. As the scout arose from the stool, the report of a firearm split the air. A bullet passed through the crown of the sombrero, singed the Texan’s ear and clipped a lock of his red hair.

For an instant, barely an instant, the Texan’s revolver shook uncertainly. That instant spelled opportunity for the scout. With the speed of thought he grabbed the hostile gun, jerked it away, and looked over the sights at its owner.

“Why don’t you count ‘two?’” inquired the scout pleasantly.

But the Texan had lost the count. Instead of trying to find it, and go on with it, he began to swear.

“Sit down,” ordered Buffalo Bill. “I’ve caught my breath, all right, but I want to read you a lesson in common civility, and show you how to treat a traveler who accidentally drops in on you through the roof of your dugout.”

Some one laughed. It was not the red-haired man, of course, for he was in anything but a merry mood. The laughter came from behind the scout, and was the first intimation that there was any one else in the place.

The scout could not very well turn from the red-haired man and investigate.

“Who’s doing that?” he demanded.

“You git right out o’ here!” flamed the red-haired man. “This ain’t none o’ yore put-in, or——”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” cut in the scout sharply. “Who are you, behind there?”

“Nate Dunbar,” came the answer.

“If you’re a friend of this red-headed rawhide, Dunbar,” proceeded the scout, “why don’t you step up behind me and help him put me out?”

“For two reasons,” answered the voice behind. “First off, neighbor, I’m no friend of Red Steve’s. Then, again, I’m lashed and laid away on the shelf. If I was able to move, I’d take Red Steve down and choke the breath out of him.”

“Dunbar’s a hoss thief that I’ve captured,” cried Red Steve, “an’ I want ye ter go on erbout yore bizness an’ leave us alone.”

“I’m no horse thief,” said Dunbar, “and Red Steve talks crooked. He’s working for Benner, and Phelps, and the rest of those cattle barons on the Brazos. It’s tin-horn work, too, and Red has to use the double tongue.”

“I thought there was something more than just common incivility back of his treatment of me,” observed the scout, a glitter rising in the eyes that looked across the revolver sights. “Don’t you try to talk!” he said sternly to the man in front of him. “Walk around and take the ropes off Dunbar. When I count ‘one,’ you’ll begin to move; when I say ‘two,’ you’ll begin on the ropes; and when I finish with ‘three,’ if Dunbar isn’t clear of his bonds, I’ll do something more than singe your ear and take a lock of your red hair. Chance, it seems, has bobbled, and dropped me into the right place at just about the right time. Now, then, one!”

There was that in the scout’s eyes and manner which caused Red Steve to start promptly toward the other side of the dugout. As he moved, the scout turned on the stool and let the revolver follow him.