Читать книгу Kiddie the Scout - Robert Leighton - Страница 5

Table of Contents

"A pity Kiddie ain't here along of us, to help. He'd sure tell us if thar's Injuns prowlin' around. My old eyes ain't just what they used ter be for spottin' a crawlin' Redskin from afar. Now, Kiddie had eyes like spy-glasses, hadn't he, Isa? As for his sense of hearin'—well, I allow he c'd 'most hear the grass a-growin'."

Old Man Birkenshaw was peering searchingly through the dim light of the early dawn, expecting at any moment to see the feathered head of a stealthy Indian warrior moving among the deep shadows. From where he lay on the dewy grass beside the crowded horse-corral, with his repeating rifle across his arm, he searched into the darkness of the larch woods and down the misty slopes to the thick line of bushes bordering the hidden creek.

"Yes," he went on, speaking in a cautious undertone, "Kiddie was a marvel."

"That's so," agreed the man stationed next to him, "a marvel for scoutin', he was. Like a cat, too."

"A cat?"

"Yes," Isa Blagg nodded, "allus fell on his feet, didn't he? He allus came out on top. I never knew such a one fer turnin' up right on the spot whenever there was danger hangin' around."

"Wonder where he is now?" sighed Gideon Birkenshaw.

"Why, away in England, of course," drawled Isa. "In England without a doubt, occupyin' that thar comfortable seat of his in the House of Lords, wearin' a gold coronet an' a gold watch an' chain, an' a robe trimmed round with ermine skins; livin' in the grand style with all them high an' mighty aristocratic friends of his; never givin' a thought ter this yer camp here in the wilds of Wyoming, or to Laramie Peak, or to you, or to me."

"Mebbe so—mebbe so," mused Gideon. "I allow it's a long, long while since I'd a letter from him—not since that time when he sent me the Arab mare. Seems as if he'd clean forgotten me, though I never reckoned as Kiddie would ever forget. He ain't that sort."

"Hullo!" Isa Blagg was suddenly alert. "What's that? Listen! D'ye hear it, Gid—a horse gallopin' along the trail—comin' this way? Listen!"

The two men lay perfectly still and silent. From afar they could hear the unmistakable sound of a horse's hoofs, becoming momentarily more distinct.

"Injuns?" questioned Birkenshaw. He glanced about to assure himself that his men were all at their appointed posts.

"No," Isa answered. "'Tain't no prairie cayuse. I c'n make out the ring of its shoes on the hard trail. 'Tain't the Pony Express, neither. Guess it's just one of the boys from Red Buttes comin' along in advance to lend us a neighbourly hand. We c'n do well with another gun, Gid—allowin' that young Rube Carter's information was correct; allowin' that Broken Feather and his braves are sure out on a horse raidin' stunt."

"Young Rube ain't anyways liable to be in error in a serious case like this," Gideon assured his companion. "And if Broken Feather's shapin' ter steal horses, why, nat'rally he'll calculate on findin' what he covets right here—the best herd within fifty miles, ter say nothin' of that Arab mare, which he's had his eye on for a while back. No, Young Rube's warnin' ain't no false alarm. I'm figurin' that the Redskins are in ambush down there among the willows. It's likely they've been there all through the night. They'll attack before sunrise; and they'll approach by way of the hollow yonder, where they c'n tread quiet on the marshy ground."

"Say, that rider's wastin' no time, Gid," Isa interrupted, "Guess he's in some hurry by the way he's poundin' along."

"We ought ter catch a view of him as he gallops over the ridge," reflected Gideon. "Might even be Broken Feather himself. He's cute enough ter come along in disguise, ridin' a saddled pony that's decently shod."

The old man raised himself on an elbow and glanced along the line of men whom he had posted at equal intervals behind the defence of a wide grassy bank commanding the front of the threatened horse corral. Next to himself was Isa Blagg, then Jake Paterson and Tom Lippincott. Between Lippincott and the man at the end station, Abe Harum, was young Rube Carter. There were six guns in all, not counting revolvers.

Gideon beckoned to young Rube, and the boy crept cautiously towards him, treading softly in his moccasined feet, carrying his rifle under his arm and taking good cover.

"Crawl down towards the shack, Rube, an' get a sight of the rider that's comin' along the trail," Gideon ordered. "Just see who he is as he tops the risin' ground, and then get right back to your place an' be ready ter open fire when I give the sign."

Rube was not absent very long. When he returned he passed close behind the Boss, so silently that Gideon was not aware of his presence until a hand was pressed on his spurred heel.

"He's a stranger, Boss," Rube reported in a whisper. "I don't reco'nize him, nor his pony neither. It don't look as he means comin' here to our camp, or he'd sure have turned in at the new gate."

"Didn't hear him crossin' the wooden bridge," said Gideon, "and his mount ain't wearin' soft moccasins."

"Seems to me he's come to a halt," added Isa Blagg.

There was an anxious spell of silent, watchful waiting. No sound or movement betrayed the presence of marauding Indians, and already the clouds in the east had taken on the rosy tinge of daybreak.

Gideon Birkenshaw was beginning to comfort himself in the belief that there would be no attack after all; that his horses were safe. He was even on the point of laying aside his Winchester and bidding his men return home with him for breakfast, when suddenly from the farther side of the corral there came the sharply startling ring of a rifle shot. It came from a direction in which none of his men had been stationed.

"Who fired that shot?" he cried in wondering surprise. "Whose gun was it? Anybody know?"

Abe Harum rose to his feet, and, bending his body forward, ran swiftly past the corral gate. Then he went down on his knees and elbows and crept along by the stout timbers of the stockade, screened by the long grass.

The corral was built in a circle, and there were no corners or buttresses behind which he could conceal himself. Neither could he yet see anything of the man who had fired the shot. What he did see, when he had crept a few yards beyond the gate, was a crowd of Indians gathered close against the palisade. One of them was in the act of climbing over the sharp-pointed rails. Some seemed already to have dropped on the inner side, for the ponies were running about the enclosure in wild alarm.

Abe levelled his rifle and fired at the Redskin now slinging a naked leg over the spikes.

The shot missed its mark, and the Indian, balancing himself as he gripped one of the rails, was preparing to jump within when he was struck by a bullet fired from beyond the other Indians and between them and the main trail.

Believing that some of the cowboys from Three Crossings had arrived, and were already at work defending Birkenshaw's property, Abe ran back to hasten Gideon and his mates.

He met all five of them before reaching the gate.

"Quick—quick!" he urged, "they're attacking on the far side. We been watchin' at the wrong place, and they've sneaked past through the long grass. Say, Gid, some of 'em have gotten inside the corral, over the rails. They're among the ponies right now. Hear 'em? Rube—" he added, turning to the boy, "you hang back thar outer the line of fire. Keep an eye on the corral gate."

Shots were being fired in rapid succession now from beyond the curve of the stockade. The Indians, assailed on both flanks, had scattered themselves to take cover behind boulders and bushes, and from their ambush they were aiming their arrows and firing with their repeating rifles.

An arrow took off Birkenshaw's hat, another grazed Tom Lippincott's cheek, but most of the Redskins were aiming down the slope in the direction from which the most effective fire was coming into their midst.

"Thar's a band of the boys from Three Crossings down yonder," Abe Harum announced. "See, they're pickin' off a Injun with 'most every shot!"

"I'm figurin' as thar's no more'n one gun down there," declared Isa Blagg with a wise headshake. "One gun alone. But the man that's behind it, he sure knows how to shoot. I'm curious t' know just who it c'n be. Eh? Yes, that's so; they're drawin' off. Guess they've had about enough. They didn't catch us sleepin', as they thought to."

The Redskins were retiring into the shelter of the neighbouring pine trees, clearly with the purpose of enticing the defenders away from the corral. Gideon Birkenshaw, falling into the snare, was planning to follow them up or to head them off on the farther side of the wood. He was rallying his forces to give each man his direction when Rube Carter ran towards him.

"Abe!—Gid!" the boy cried excitedly, "they've broke open the gate—from the inside! They're stampeding our ponies. Come back and stop 'em! Say, Gid, Broken Feather's gone off, mounted on your Arab mare!"

"Eh? What's that? Mounted on Sultana, is he?" Gideon ran back, refilling the magazine of his rifle as he went. Abe Harum, Tom Lippincott, and the rest of them followed him.

They found the stout double gate of the corral standing wide open. The horses had been driven out by the Indians, who moved about, hidden in their midst. Many of the animals were already at liberty, racing in close company in the direction taken by the Arab mare.

So dense was the pressing throng of horses at the entrance, that it was impossible for Gideon to push his way through in an attempt to shut the gate. Neither could he fire upon the Indians, for fear of injuring the animals.

The Indians, indeed, were going out under the cover of the horses, and as each brave passed the open gate he seized his chosen pony, tied an end of his lariat about its muzzle, and mounting, bare-backed, rode off.

At length Isa Blagg succeeded in reaching the gate and closing it. He flung the heavy bars across and secured them in their staples. Only a score or so of the ponies remained in the corral. Over a hundred had been driven off in the confused stampede.

When Isa returned to his companion there was not a live Redskin to be seen. Even the wounded had been carried away.

"Seems as how we've gotten the worst of it, this time," Isa Blagg regretted. "I'll allow that Broken Feather laid his plans real well. You made a mistake, Gideon, in plantin' us all together beside the gate, as if that was the only possible point of attack. Say, we oughter been distributed in pickets, same as Buckskin Jack allus recommended."

"We ain't none of us wounded," reflected Gideon, wiping a streak of blood from his face. "Leastways, not wounded serious. An' that sniper hidden in the bush yonder must ha' picked off quite a dozen of the Injuns. I'm hopin' he'll show up, now, an' let us know who he is."

"Meantime," interposed Abe Harum, "what's goin' ter happen 'bout our ponies? You can't afford ter lose that Arab mare, Gid. A valuable beast, anyhow, let alone her being a present from Kiddie."

"I'm figurin' out just how I'm to get her back," nodded Gideon. "I shall have her back, though I have to organize a special raid into their reservation' and enlist the help of the military from Fort Laramie. Rube," he called, "just slip down to the trail. Thar's a squad of the boys from Red Buttes just arrived. Tell 'em to come right here. Tell 'em as I'm plannin' to foller up them Redskins and round up my ponies before they're corralled."

There were seventeen frontiersmen in the squad, all of them disappointed in being too late to help in defending Birkenshaw's ponies, but all of them eager to join in the pursuit of Broken Feather and his braves.

Gideon yielded the leadership to Nick Undrell, a man of blemished reputation, a drunkard, a desperate gambler, and a convicted thief, but a magnificent horseman, a capable scout, and the hero of many an Indian fight.

Nick knew where the Indian village was situated, and which way Broken Feather was most likely to take.

"They're plumb sure ter pass through One Tree Gulch," he declared. "We c'n overtake them in the defile, goin' by way of Poison Spider Creek and the old Buffalo Trail, droppin' on 'em when they least expect us."

They saw no sign of the Indians for several miles; not even on the wide expanse of Laramie Plain. Here, however, Nick Undrell pointed to the dusty ground where the track of a horse crossed his path obliquely.

"See that, Mr. Birkenshaw?" he said, glancing along the distinct line of hoof marks. "That rider, whoever he is, wasn't dawdlin' none. Looks as if ho was makin' fer the far side of White Bull Ridge, which ain't a thousand miles from Broken Feather's village. Anybody you know? Ridin' a big horse, he is, shod by a town blacksmith. Might have started from the neighbourhood of your camp just about the time you stopped shootin'."

"Don't know nothin' about him," returned Gideon. "He ain't one of our lot, anyhow. Push along, Nick. I'm frettin' considerable about my Arab mare. Wouldn't have exchanged her fer any hoss as ever chewed grass."

"No, and I'm figurin' as Broken Feather won't be a whole lot eager to part with her, now he's gotten a cinch on her," rejoined Nick.

"Gid!" Abe Harum called from behind, "thar's dust risin' from the mouth of One Tree Gulch. If we puts on a hustle we shall drop on 'em 'fore they gets out on the open prairie."

They spurred their ponies to the gallop. They raced at top speed into the gulch, caring nothing for the clatter of hoofs, knowing that there could be no escape for the mounted Redskins up the steep hillsides. Midway along the defile, where it widened beyond a projecting spur of cliff, they saw the Indians driving the stolen herd of horses before them, urging them with yells and stinging quirts.

Nick Undrell divided his forces into two companies, giving them instructions to ride forward, one on either flank of the enemy, with the endeavour to head them off. Nick himself, with Abe Harum, was to remain in the rear, as support, while Isa Blagg and Gideon Birkenshaw were, if possible, to work their way round to the captured ponies and cut them off from the Indians, to be rounded-up after the expected fight.

Gideon so far succeeded in his object as to get in advance of the Redskin rearguard. By riding obliquely down the slope towards them, he might now hope to place himself between them and his ponies.

He spurred his horse, holding his revolver ready for instant use. But as he rode forward he caught sight of Broken Feather, mounted on the Arab mare, and impulsively he resolved to recapture Sultana at all risks. He drew rein. On the instant his obedient pony swerved.

As it did so, Gideon, glancing forward to the farther mouth of the gulch, saw a strange horseman approaching at a full gallop. He came like a wild gust of wind, leaning over in his seat and slinging his supple lariat above his flapping hat as he came. He wore the usual red shirt and blue scarf of the frontiersman, and he was mounted on a splendid bay horse, that was less like a prairie mustang than a well-trained cavalry charger.

Watching him in astonishment, Gideon saw that he had singled out the Indian chief, and was riding down upon him. He saw the lariat shoot out from the uplifted hand like a wriggling snake. The wide loop opened like a wheel, grew suddenly tense and smaller. Then it dropped clean over Broken Feather's head and shoulders, and in an instant the chief's two arms were pinioned to his sides.