Читать книгу Buffalo Bill, the Border King; Or, Redskin and Cowboy - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 3

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Fort Advance, a structure built of heavy, squared timbers and some masonry, with towers at the four corners, commanding the deep ditches which had been dug around the walls, stood in the heart of the then untracked Territory of Utah. It was the central figure of a beautiful valley—when in repose—and commanded one of the important passes and wagon trails of the Rockies.

A mountain torrent flowed through the valley, and a supply of pure water from this stream had been diverted into the armed square which, commanded by Major Frank Baldwin, was a veritable City of Refuge to all the whites who chanced to be in the country at this time.

For the valley of Fort Advance offered no peaceful scene. The savage denizens of the mountain and plain had risen, and, in a raging, vengeful flood, had poured into the valley and besieged the unfortunate occupants of the fort. These were a branch of the great Sioux tribe, and, under their leading chief, Oak Heart, fought with the desperation and blind fanaticism of Berserkers.

A belt of red warriors surrounded Fort Advance, cutting off all escape, or the approach of any assistance to the inmates of the stockade, outnumbering the able-bodied men under Major Baldwin’s command five to one! Among them rode the famous Oak Heart, inspiring his children to greater deeds of daring. By his side rode a graceful, beautiful girl of some seventeen years, whose face bore the unmistakable stamp of having other than Indian blood flowing in her veins. Long, luxurious hair, every strand of golden hue, contrasted strangely with her bronze complexion, while her eyes were sloe-black, and brilliant with every changing expression.

This was White Antelope, a daughter of Oak Heart, and she held almost as much influence in the tribe as the grim old chief himself. Because of her beauty, indeed, she was almost worshiped as a goddess. At least, there was not a young buck in all the Utah Sioux who would not have attempted any deed of daring for the sake of calling the White Antelope his squaw.

But while the red warriors were so inspired without the walls of the fortress, within was a much different scene. Major Baldwin’s resources were at an end. Many of his men were wounded, or ill; food was low; the wily redskins had cut off their water-supply; and there were but a few rounds of ammunition remaining. Fort Advance and its people were at a desperate pass, indeed!

After a conference with his subordinate officers, Major Baldwin stood up in the midst of his haggard, powder-begrimed men. They were faithful fellows—many of them bore the scars of old Indian fights. But human endurance has its limit, and there is an end to man’s courage.

“Will no man in this fort dare run the death-gantlet and bring aid to us?” cried the major.

It was an appeal from the lips of a fearless man, one who had won a record as a soldier in the Civil War, and had made it good later upon the field as an Indian fighter. The demand was for one who would risk almost certain death to save a couple of hundred of his fellow beings, among them a score of women and children.

The nearest military post where help might be obtained was forty miles away. Several brave men had already attempted to run the deadly gantlet, and had died before the horrified eyes of the fort’s inmates. It seemed like flinging one’s life away to venture into the open where, just beyond rifle-shot, the red warriors ringed the fort about.

Such was the situation, and another attack was about due. The riding of the big chief and his daughter through the mass of Indians, was for the purpose of giving instructions regarding the coming charge. Ammunition in the fort might run out this time. Then over the barrier would swarm the redskins, and the thought of the massacre that would follow made even Major Baldwin’s cheek blanch.

So the gallant commander’s appeal had been made—and had it been made in vain? So it would seem, for not a man spoke for several moments. They shifted their guns, or changed weight from one foot to the other, or adjusted a bandage which already marked the redskin’s devilish work.

They were brave men; but death seemed too sure a result of the attempt called for; it meant—to their minds—but another life flung away!

“Was it not better that all should die here together, fighting desperately till the last man fell?” That was the question these old scarred veterans asked in their own minds. The venture would be utterly and completely hopeless.

“Look there!”

The trumpet-call was uttered by an officer on one of the towers of the stockade. His arm pointed westward, toward a ridge of rock which—barren and forbidding—sloped down into the valley facing the main gateway of Fort Advance.

At the officer’s cry a score of men leaped to positions from which could be seen the object that occasioned it. Even Major Baldwin, knowing that the cry had been uttered because of some momentous happening, hurriedly mounted to the platform above the gate. He feared that already his demand for another volunteer was too late. He believed the redskins were massing for another charge.

All eyes were strained in the direction the officer on the watch-tower pointed. A gasp of amazement was chorused by those who saw and understood the meaning of the cry.

A horseman was seen riding like the wind toward the fort—and he was a white man!

The Indians who had already beheld this rash adventurer were dumb with amazement. They were as much surprised by his appearance as were the inmates of the fort.

The unknown rider was leading a packhorse. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent animal, and the packhorse flying along by its side was a racer as well, for both came on, down the long tongue of barren rock, at a spanking pace.

From whence had the man come? Who was he? How had he gotten almost through the Indian lines undiscovered?

He certainly had all but run the gantlet of the red warriors, for no shot, or no arrow, had been fired at him until he was discovered by the officer on the watch-tower of the fort.

Then it was that he spurred forward like the wind, and floating to the ears of the whites who watched him so fearfully came the long, tremolo yell of the Sioux warriors as they started in pursuit of the daredevil rider. He was heading directly for the large gates of the fort.

That he had chosen well his place to break through the Indian death-circle was evident, for there were few braves near him as he fled along the sloping ridge into the valley. His rifle he turned to right, or to left, firing with the same ease from either shoulder, while his mount, and the packhorse tied to its bridle, guided their own feet over the rocky way.

When he pulled trigger the bullet did not miss its mark. The rifle rang out a death-knell, or sent a wounded brave out of action.

The ponies of the Indians were feeding in the valley, with only a guard here and there, and there were no mounted warriors near to close in on the reckless rider, or to head him off. Hark! Their vengeful yells, as they observed the possibility of the daring man’s escape, were awful to hear. They were in a frenzy of rage at the desperate act of the horseman.

Rifles and bows sent bullets and shafts at him, but at long range. If he was hit he did not show it. The horses still thundered on, down into the valley, as recklessly as frenzied buffalo.

Oak Heart, the great war chief, heard the commotion and saw the speeding white man. The chief was mounted, and he lashed his horse into a dead run for the point where the reckless paleface was descending into the valley. With him rode the White Antelope, and their coming spurred the braves to more strenuous attempts to reach, or capture, or kill, the daredevil rider.

The occupants of the fort—those who beheld this wonderful race—were on the qui vive. Their exclamations displayed the anxiety and uncertainty they felt.

“He can never make it!”

“The Indian guard are driving in the ponies to bar his way!”

“Who is he?”

“How he rides!”

“God guard the brave fellow!” cried a woman’s voice.

One of the gentler sex had climbed to the platform over the gate, and this was her prayer.

Other women had dropped to their knees, and were fervently praying God to spare the splendid fellow who was daring the gantlet of death. A cheer rose from the soldiery. This unknown was showing them the way that they had not dared to go.

“That packhorse is wounded. Why doesn’t he leave it?” cried one of the officers. “It is delaying him—can’t the fellow see it?”

At that moment the commander shouted:

“Captain Keyes, take your troop to the rescue of that brave fellow!”

“With pleasure, sir! I was about to ask your permission to do just that,” declared the junior officer.

The bugle sounded, but its notes were drowned in a sudden wild shout of joy that rose from the two hundred inmates of the fort. Another officer, with a field-glass at his eye, had suddenly turned and shouted:

“It is Buffalo Bill, the Border King!”