Читать книгу Buffalo Bill, the Border King; Or, Redskin and Cowboy - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 4

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The wild cheers that greeted the recognition of the daring gantlet runner came in frenzied roars, the piping voices of children, the treble notes of women, and the deep bass of the men mingling in a swelling chorus that rose higher and higher.

The Border King, as he had been called, heard the sound. He understood that it was in his welcome, and he fairly stood up in his stirrups and waved his sombrero, while the horses dashed on at the same mad pace.

Buffalo Bill, or William F. Cody, as was his real name, was the chief of scouts at this very fort, and he was a hero—almost a god—in the eyes of the soldiers and his brother scouts.

A week before he had started for Denver with important despatches, but had returned in a few hours to report signs of a large band of Indians on the move. He had warned Major Baldwin that Oak Heart and his braves might be intending a concerted attack upon Fort Advance; but duty called Buffalo Bill to the trail again, and he had hurried away on his Denver mission.

That the danger he had dreaded was real, the surrounding of the fort several days later by the Sioux proved. Scouts had been sent for aid, but too late. None had gotten through the belt of redskins, and that belt was tightening each hour. The ammunition was low, and the awful end was not far off if help from some quarter did not appear.

Even the appearance of Buffalo Bill inspired the beleaguered whites with hope. It seemed an almost hopeless attempt to reach the fort, for the red warriors were closing in upon him. Yet he rode on unshakenly.

Down the ridge he sped, and out upon the plain. He was seemingly coming from the sunshine of life into the valley of death’s shadow!

Why did he do it? Why did he risk his life so recklessly when only forty miles away he could have obtained help from the military post? There was some reason behind his daring act, and some cause for his delaying his effort by dragging the packhorse, now wounded, with him.

All in the fort knew what this hero of the border had done to win fame among the mighty men of the frontier. He was chief and king among them. Yet what could he do now to help the besieged in the fortress, even did he reach the gate? That was the question!

But hope revived, nevertheless, in every heart. Even the commandant, Major Frank Baldwin, began to look more hopeful as the scout drew closer to the fort. He had known Buffalo Bill long and well, and he knew of what marvels he was capable!

Buffalo Bill had been born in a cabin home on the banks of the Mississippi River in the State of Iowa, and from his eighth year he had been a pioneer—an advance agent of civilization. At that age his father had removed to Kansas, and as a boy Billie Cody saw and took part in the bloody struggles in Kansas between the supporters of slavery and those who believed that the soil of Kansas should be unsmirched by that terrible traffic in human lives.

Cody’s father, indeed, lost his life because of his belief in freedom, and the boy was obliged to help support the family at a tender age. He went to Leavenworth, and there hired out to Alex Majors, who of that day was the chief of the overland freighters into the far West.

The boy was eleven years old—an age when most youngsters think only of their play and of their stomachs. But Billie Cody had seen his father shot down; he had nursed him and hidden him from his foes, and from the dying pioneer had received a sacred charge. That was the care of his mother and sister. It was necessary for him to earn a man’s wage, not a boy’s. And to get it he must do a man’s work. He was a splendid rider, even then—one of those horsemen who seem a part of the animal he bestrode, like the Centaurs of which Greek mythology tells us. Alex Majors needed a messenger to ride from train to train along the wagon-trail, and he entrusted young Cody with the job.

It was one that might have put to the test the bravery of a seasoned plainsman. Indians and wild beasts were both very plentiful. There were hundreds of dangers to threaten the lone boy as he rode swiftly over the trails. Yet even then he began to make his mark. He had several encounters with the Indians during his first season. As he says himself, the first redskin he ever saw stole from him, and he had to force the scoundrel—boy though he was—to give up the property at the point of the rifle. This incident, perhaps, gave the youth a certain daring in approaching the reds which often stood him well in after adventures. And the reds learned to respect and fear Billie Cody. He allowed his hair to grow long, to show the Indians that he was not afraid to wear a “scalp-lock”—practically daring any of his red foes to come and take it!

So from that early day he had been active on the border. All knew him—red as well as white. He had been an Indian fighter from his eleventh year, the hero of hundreds of daring deeds, thrilling adventures, and narrow escapes. He was as gentle as a woman with the weak, the feeble, or with those who claimed his protection; but he was as savage in battle as a mountain lion, and had well earned the title bestowed upon him by his admiring friends—the Border King. His coming to the fort now—if he could make it safely—was worth in itself a company of reenforcements, for it put heart into all the besieged.

“Never mind, Keyes! it is Cody, and he will get through,” called out Major Baldwin to Captain Keyes, as the men were mounting.

Captain Edward L. Keyes was a splendid type of cavalry officer, and he was anxious for another brush with the redskins at close quarters. He was disappointed, but as the man making the attempt to reach Fort Advance was Buffalo Bill, the captain agreed with Major Baldwin that “he would get through.”

The Border King had turned his rifle now upon the Indian guards who were trying to head him off by blocking his way with the large herd of half-wild ponies which had been feeding in the valley. Indian ponies are not broken like those used by white men. They are pretty nearly wild all their days. The red man merely teaches his mount to answer to the pressure of his knees, and to the jerk of the single rawhide thong that is slipped around the brute’s lower jaw. And these lessons are further enforced by cruelty.

The odor of a white person is offensive to an Indian pony. A white man has been known frequently to stampede a band of Indian mounts; and not infrequently the mob of wild creatures has turned upon the unfortunate paleface and trampled him to death under their unshod feet.

Therefore, this opposition of the ponies was no small matter. They were a formidable barrier to Buffalo Bill’s successful arrival at the gate of the stockade fort.

His rifle rattled forth lively, yet deadly, music, and his aim was wonderfully true for that of a man riding at full speed. Emptying the gun, he swung it quickly over his shoulder, and drawing the big cavalry pistols from their holsters the daring scout began to fairly mow a path through the herd of ponies. The slugs carried by the large-caliber pistols were as effective as the balls from his rifle. The mob of squealing, kicking, biting ponies broke before his charge, and swept on ahead of him. Another cheer from the watchers in the fort signaled this fact. The ponies were stampeding directly toward Fort Advance.

“Out and line ’em up!”

“We’ll corral the ponies if we kyan’t th’ Injuns!”

“Throw open the gates!” commanded Major Baldwin, his voice heard above the tumult.

The command was obeyed, and Captain Keyes and his men galloped out to meet the mob.

In vain did the Indian guards try to head off the stampede. By having left their ponies in the valley where the grass was sweet and long, they had been caught in this trap. Instead of capturing Buffalo Bill it looked as though he and the other whites would capture the bulk of the Indian ponies!

Oak Heart and the White Antelope, with a few mounted reds at their back, thundered across the level plain and up the rise toward the fort. But the pony herd and Buffalo Bill were well in the lead.

The king of the border turned in his saddle, and waved his sombrero in mockery at the Indian chief. Then the ponies dashed into the gateway and were corraled, while the scout, still leading his packhorse, swept in behind them.

“On guard, all! The redskins will charge on foot to try and get their ponies!” shouted the scout, as he came through the gate.

His voice rose above the turmoil and brought the delighted men to their duty. Major Baldwin echoed Buffalo Bill’s advice, ordering everybody to their posts.

“Be careful of the expenditure of powder and lead, men!” warned the major, from his stand on the platform. “Remember we are running short.”

“Don’t you believe it, major!” cried the voice of the scout, as he dismounted in the middle of the enthusiastic throng.

“What’s that, Cody?”

“Strip the packhorse. I have brought you a-plenty of ammunition until reenforcements can be had.”

“God bless you, Cody, for those words! You have saved us,” cried Major Baldwin, and there was a tremor in his voice as he glanced toward the group of women and children.

He came down from the platform, and wrung the scout’s hand, as he asked:

“In the name of Heaven, Cody, where did you get ammunition? Surely, you did not bring it all the way from Denver?”

“No, indeed. I cached this over a year ago, major,” the scout replied cheerfully. “It will hold those red devils off until help arrives. You’ve sent to Fort Resistence, I presume?”

“Sent, alas! But five men have died in the attempt.”

“And not one got through?” cried Buffalo Bill.

“Not one, Cody.”

Buffalo Bill’s face assumed a look of anxiety—an expression not often seen there.

“I had called for another volunteer when you were discovered coming. It was a splendid dash you made, Cody, and a desperate one as well.”

“Aye,” said the scout gravely. “Desperate it was, indeed. But it must be made again. This ammunition I have brought you may last till morning; but the reds must be taken on the flank or they’ll hold you here till kingdom come!

“I’ll try to get through again, Major Baldwin. You must have help,” declared the Border King sternly.