Читать книгу Buffalo Bill, the Border King; Or, Redskin and Cowboy - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 11

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Slowly the two braves approached Texas Jack’s position. The scout dared not change his attitude—he could not afford to put the men on guard if they were still unsuspicious of him.

His rifle-butt rested on the ground; his elbows leaned upon the tree stub; he stared straight across the valley to where the camp-fires twinkled, and to where two or three points of light, and the gloomy outline of the tall stockade, proclaimed the presence of the fort.

Would the two warriors speak to him?—or would they respect his apparent reverie and pass on?

Out of the corner of his eye Texas Jack watched the coming sentinels. Every muscle and nerve in his body was strained for a spring. He had made up his mind already what action he should take did the reds show that they meant to accost him.

He did not wish to fire his gun and so call every Indian in that part of the valley to the spot. He gripped instead his rifle by the muzzle, and the instant one of those savages came within reach he would whirl up the gun and bring its stock with crushing force down upon the man’s head!

Then the knife for the second brave! That was all he could do. If he were not shot or tomahawked first, he could finish both of the reds without making much disturbance. The main difficulty would be to stifle their death-yells, as he had that of the chief at his feet.

So he waited, his body sweating, although it was a chill night, uncertain as to what the warriors would do. They were talking in low tones; this in itself gave the scout some hope. Had they intended attacking him their plans would have been made before they came so near, and there would be no need of conversation.

The seconds numbered as the warriors came on seemed centuries long to the scout. But at length he saw that they were passing him quietly. They glanced at him, but he stood haughtily aloof, and the braves were not encouraged by his manner to speak. He saw them go with a relief that almost unnerved him!

He could not risk their coming back. The instant they were out of sight the scout stooped, stripped the dead man of his gun, bow and arrows, and knife, and in a crouching position ran agilely forward to where a clump of young trees loomed up in the path, a hundred yards to the front.

There he dropped down and lay a moment, listening. Not a sound from those behind; not a sound from any redskins before him. Had he at last gotten through the lines completely?

He could not really believe this good fortune was his so easily. He stood up at last and peered all about. And suddenly, just as he was about to move forward once more toward the fort, he heard the stamp of a pony’s hoof on the other side of the clump of trees!

The sound dropped Texas Jack to the ground like a rifle-shot. Had he been seen by the rider of the pony? Or did the pony have a rider? It might be one escaped from the herd and roaming at will about the valley.

The pony stamped again. There was no other sound.

“I’ve got tuh find out what’s doin’ there before I make another break,” muttered the scout. “And here goes!”

The thicket was a closely woven one. Did he try to pass through it with his guns and other accouterments he might make some disturbance. So he left everything but his pistols, knife, and the bow and arrows he had taken from the dead chief on the ground, and began to worm his way through the brush-clump.

Once he made some little noise by catching a part of his clothing on a brittle branch. Instantly he halted and made the squeaking grunt of the porcupine. His imitation of animals was perfect, and a porcupine might easily be on the still hunt in the thicket-patch.

The pony did not change its position. Jack knew. So, after a moment of waiting, the scout risked moving on. He came finally to the edge of the brush, and there the horse stood—not three yards away from him!

And from where he crouched the scout could see more than the bulk of the pony’s body against the sky-line. It was bestrode by an Indian in head-dress and blanket. It was doubtless one of the chiefs who had started to ride around the fort. Would he ride on and not suspect the presence of the white man in the bushes?

But perhaps, in his nervousness, Texas Jack had not imitated the porcupine true enough to satisfy the keen ear of the Indian. Or else the porcupine’s grunt was a private signal between this chief and his own men.

However, Texas Jack saw the redskin force his pony nearer the thicket, and he heard its rider twitter like a bird disturbed at night in its nest.

“Old man, you’ve got the best of me!” thought the scout. “I can’t answer that signal, for I don’t know what the answer is. It’s a bad thing for you!”

There was no time for hesitation. Again the scout had to take life or be killed himself. The scout was a good shot with the bow and arrows as he was with rifle or pistol. And he must use a silent weapon to get rid of this foe.

It was too far to leap with his knife. The bow and arrows of the dead chief came in handy. In a flash the crouching scout fitted an arrow to the bowstring and drew the shaft to its head. There he waited, still as a graven image, until the horse and rider were almost upon him.

Then he let drive the arrow. It sped with fearful force, aimed at the throat of the red chieftain that all death-cry might be stilled.

True was the aim and fatal the shot. The arrow penetrated the Indian’s throat, and its head stuck out a hand’s breadth at the back of his neck. Without a sound the Indian toppled from the pony’s back.

The horse snorted and sprang forward. His escape might have been as dire a calamity for the scout as the death-yell of the chieftain. If the pony dashed away across the valley, the sentinels would surely be aroused.

But the animal made but one leap. Like a shadow Texas Jack leaped up and caught the rawhide bridle which had been snatched from the dead man’s hand. He brought the pony to an abrupt halt. Instantly he swung himself upon the bare back of the animal, well used to riding Indian fashion, and guided him to the other side of the thicket, leaving the chief where he had fallen. He did not stop to strip him of his arms; he had quite all he could carry, and he wanted his own rifle.

All seemed to have gone well, and it looked to the scout at that moment as though the way before him to the fort was clear sailing. But just as he was congratulating himself on this belief a wild and ear-splitting yell arose on the night, and from a spot not far in his rear. First one voice and then another took up the yell—it was the warning of the red man when he finds the trail of the secret enemy!

Texas Jack knew well what it meant. The first Indian he had killed, and whose place beside the dead tree he had taken, had been found by the sentinels. They knew that some shrewd enemy had been at work, and their yells aroused the braves all over the valley.

The cries told the redskins as plainly as words that some white man was trying to break through their lines. Major Baldwin had thrown a line of sentinels outside the stockade, and these heard the cries and understood as well. They passed back the word that either Buffalo Bill or Texas Jack was coming.

And so the scout was coming—on the back of the half-wild Indian pony. The danger behind him was great, nor was that still ahead slight. Some of the young braves, eager for scalps, had crept forward in the darkness, hoping to shoot some white man on the towers, or one that ventured beyond the stockade walls. As the war-whoop was raised these young braves started back for their lines on the jump.

One of them saw the scout coming up the hill at full speed. Although Texas Jack was still in Indian dress, the warrior decided that no honest redskin would be riding in that direction at such a pace!

He fired suddenly. So did the scout. The aim of both was true, for the Indian’s bullet killed the pony Jack was riding, and Jack’s bullet killed the Indian himself.

Although badly shaken by his fall from the pony’s back, Texas Jack was on his feet in an instant and was running at topmost speed for the fort. He suspected that there would be a line of sentinels outside the stockade, and he raised his voice as he ran:

“Hold on, men; it’s Texas Jack! Don’t shoot!”

A cheer was the answer from the fort, while the Indians in the rear who heard uttered their war-whoop again and fired a scattering volley in the direction of the scout’s voice. But he was not hit, and, a few minutes later, he passed in through the gateway of the fort.

Proud of his deed, as he had good reason to be, he shouted:

“Slightly disfigured, boys, but still in the ring!”

The commander greeted the scout joyfully, but with his next breath asked anxiously:

“But Cody?”

“Is a long way on his ride to Resistence, sir.”

A cheer greeted this reply.

“Thank God for that good news! I trust you were not hurt on your way, Jack, though you did raise a merry rumpus in the Indian camps.”

“Well, now! Didn’t they turn loose for a few minutes, sir? But I got only a shake-up, for I got too proud to walk, and the pony I cabbaged took a header with an Injun bullet in him. Somebody got worse hurt than I did, though, and I’m not kicking a little bit, as luck came my way.”

“And it came our way, too, Jack! We’re mighty glad to have you back.”

“Oh, that was my luck, too!” said Jack, laughing. “Buffalo was bound to come and send me on to Resistence with the news, but I wouldn’t hear to it, and finally we drew lots and I won.”

“Next to Cody himself you’re the man I want,” declared Major Baldwin; “for, although all my officers and men are true as steel—and able, too—your experience is worth much, not to speak of the value of your rifle. Your coming and the knowledge that Cody has got through all right gives us a new lease of life.”

The major’s praise tinged the bronzed cheek of the scout with blushes, and he hurried away to remove his war-paint and to change into more civilized garments.