Читать книгу The Island Trapper; or, The Young White-Buffalo Hunters - T. C. Harbaugh - Страница 3

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“Whoa!”

The Command was spoken in a low tone to a majestic iron-gray horse.

Instantly the fore-feet were plunged into the loose earth, and the animal became as stationary as a bronze statue.

“Dash me! if I didn’t hear music. Tecumseh, ye heard it, too, for I saw ye prick yer ears before I told ye to stop. Where is the white man who has the audacity to be musical in the Pawnee country? Dash me! I’d like to see him; I’d like to take ’im back to the States and present ’im to Mr. Barnum. Listen! there it goes again. Music, certain, no mistake, and it sounds like that which I’ve heard on Broadway, comin’ from the dirty hand-organs.”

With a smile on his broad, handsome countenance, the speaker leaned forward in the wooden stirrups, with a half-doubled band behind his left ear.

“He’s struck up a new tune, and dash me if it isn’t ‘Hail Columbia.’ I’m gettin’ uncommon curious, settin’ here on Tecumseh, and list’nin’ to the first genuine music I’ve heard for five years, and dash me if—Injun yells, by Joshua!”

The iron-gray heard the new sounds, which seemed to emanate from the same spot as the mysterious music, and turned his head to his master, as if to ask what they meant. A furious light flashed from his dark eyes, and a low neigh told how eager he was to court excitement.

“Steady, Tecumseh, steady!” whispered the frontiersman “The Injun yells come from the same spot as the music; but still, ‘Hail Columbia’ remains unbroken. I can’t stand it any longer. Dash me if I ain’t goin’ to inquire into that music. The old song goes all over me like an electric arrow, and I b’lieve it affects my old horse. Now, Tecumseh, for’ard!”

With the last word the horseman settled back into the saddle, and the steed bounded off like a frightened stag.

Down the right bank of the Pawnee Loup the twain flew, through the soft gloaming of that delightful May day, 1815.

The horse and his rider were well mated. Both possessed courage, strength and true nobleness of character, the brute none less than his master.

The occupant of the blanketed saddle was a medium-sized man, about forty years of age. His hair, and he had an ocean of it, was an iron-gray, and shone like silver. The face was smooth, somewhat cadaverous, but healthy; and the brownish eyes, nestling between long, dark lashes, were indicative alike of gentleness and determination. He wore the often-described habiliments of the Western hunter, and in addition to the long-barreled rifle that lay across the pommel of his saddle, supported in its position by a great hand, the only ill-proportioned member of the body, a brace of Colt’s large revolvers protruded from his buck-skin belt.

“Tecumseh, if ye see danger afore Shack does, stop,” he said, as they neared the mouth of the Nebraska’s tributary. “We’re gettin’ close to the place now. I hevn’t heard the red devils for some time; but the music keeps up mighty well. He’s got out a new tune now—a tune which the lame old Italian used to grind out before the ‘Arcade’—a tune which nobody in creation could tell the name of. Wonder if that old chap hesn’t come out here to amuse the Pawnee Loups? If he hes—”

The sentence was broken by Tecumseh’s abrupt halt, and the frontiersman spoke a few words which effectually quieted the steed’s nervousness.

“It’s jest over the rise, thar, on the Oregon trail,” muttered Frontier Shack, glancing at his revolvers and lifting the deadly rifle from the saddle. “The Injuns hev played smash with another lot of poor emigrants. ’Twas but yesterday that they butchered everybody in Davidson’s train, and now they’ve made new rivers of blood! Dash me if these things don’t rile me; they run through my marrow like fiery arrows, and if the Gov’ment would appoint Ote Shackelford Injun agent, the Oregon trail would soon be as safe as Broadway. But for’ard, Tecumseh, slowly, slowly, horse.”

The faithful steed now walked cautiously toward a knoll well defined against the darkening horizon, and when the summit had almost been gained, a word from his master caused him to pause.

“I’ll be back presently, horse,” he said, in low tones, as he dismounted and crept forward.

His ears were saluted by coarse but not unpleasant music, as he executed the movement, and he knew that it emanated from a hand-organ not far from the opposite foot of the knoll, and between him and the Nebraska or Platte. The night was still, and the stars were beginning to appear in the boundless firmament above the treeless river. A light breeze blew from the water, and wafted the strains toward the northern lodges of the Pawnees, between which and the river they had encountered the frontiersman.

Frontier Shack reached the summit of the hillock, and peered over toward the stream.

“Well, this beats any thing I’ve seen since I’ve been in the West!” he ejaculated, a moment later. “That’s what I call pursuin’ music under difficulties. That young chap handles the crank well, but he’s almost played out, and his friend can’t dance much longer. Dash me if I didn’t get here in the nick of time; there’s goin’ to be some new tunes played now—new tunes, by Joshua!”

A moment later the scout rose and walked back to his untethered and impatient horse, and while he is examining the priming of his weapons, let us introduce the reader to the scene near the base of the hillock.

Seated about a fire lately kindled, more for light than heat, for the air was not uncomfortable, though sharp, were perhaps fifteen Indians—Pawnee Loups. Their arms lay at their sides, and proclaimed that they were not dreaming of the presence of an enemy. Fresh scalps dangled from the belts of the younger warriors, and a close observer would have detected blood on their hatchets and bows.

The scalps, the blood and their prisoners told, in silent but unmistakable language, the fate of an emigrant train.

The marauders’ captives were two youths, neither beyond seventeen, fair-skinned and handsome, and bore a striking resemblance to one another.

Their garments were of the latest cut in the States, but quite serviceable for the wilds of the West. They also proclaimed that they were not the sons of ordinary emigrants, who, unable to thrive among the populous lands of the East, were seeking homes, Boone-like, beyond the verge of civilization. Their faces betokened intelligence, and a bravery suited to the land and times they were in.

One stood near the fire, turning, with a strange desperation, the crank of a new hand-organ, such as the beggarly sons of Italy grind on the streets of our metropolis to-day. Long playing had almost exhausted him, his cheeks were flushed with fever, his breathing came by gasps, and great blue veins stood forth on his hands and forehead like whip-cords. He partially leaned against the organ for support, and his eyes were upturned to a great red star that seemed to pity him from the heavens. His companion was dancing for dear life near by, ready to sink to the ground, and die beneath the reeking tomahawks of the savages, who grinned and congratulated each other on the tortures they were inflicting on the American boys.

The youths were playing and dancing for dear life. Whenever one relinquished the accursed crank for a moment, to catch his breath, the leader of the band, a gaunt savage, would start forward with drawn tomahawk, and eyes glaring with the most brutal of murders. The other was not allowed to pause in his forced dance, and more than once the Indian above-mentioned had thrown new but transitory life into his tired limbs.

“They will have to tomahawk me ere long,” at last groaned the youth at the organ. “Nature is almost exhausted; my arm feels like a bar of lead, and my blood is on fire. Oh! heaven, why did I allow my adventurous spirit to lead me into the jaws of death? The sweetest of all homes had I, the best of fathers, sisters—and a mother—in heaven! Yes, mother! mother! I have journeyed here to meet thee. I can hold out no longer—there! God help me now!”

With the last words he pushed the instrument from him, and staggered back with a groan of despair.

The Indians leaped to their feet, and, with a wild yell, the gaunt taskmaster bounded forward with upraised tomahawk.

The youth could not resist; he sunk to the ground and looked calmly at his would-be slayer. But a form threw itself between him and the Indian. It was the form of his young companion.

“Charley, we’ll die together,” said the youngest boy, through compressed lips. “They shan’t kill you, and leave me. I persuaded you to undertake this death-journey—”

“No, no, George. The blame is mine! Heaven! the fiend is upon us.”

The boys saw the fiendish face and gory tomahawk of the Pawnee above them, and George threw himself upon the prostrate body of his friend.

The savage shot an expressive “ugh” from his lips, and stooped to tear the twain apart, for it was evident that one was to be spared, when the sharp crack of a rifle rung out on the cool night air, and the Pawnee staggered from his victims with a death-cry.

The shot started the Indians into fiery life, and, quickly following the report, a wild yell saluted their ears.

“Scatter ’em, Tecumseh!” cried the hoarse voice of a man. “We’ll give the Pawnee dogs thunder to-night. Cl’ar the way, ye red devils! I’m right among ye—Frontier Shack!—and ye’ve see’d me afore.”

Down the hill, like a dusky thunderbolt, came the speaker. He stood erect in the stirrups, a revolver in either hand, the reins lying across Tecumseh’s neck. He looked like a demon of destruction in the light of the fire, and he added new and terrible life to the scene on the banks of the Platte.

“Trample the dogs down, horse!” he yelled, and as he reached the foot of the hill, bang, bang, bang, went the chambers of his deadly weapons.

Not a bullet was thrown away; with each report an Indian fell backward, and before the white, death-dealing whirlwind they scattered and fled, every man for himself, toward the river.

The horse was in his glory; he overtook several of the red fugitives, and knocked two beneath his iron-shod feet, never to rise again.

Bang! bang! and two more dropped dead at the water’s edge; another shot, the last, and the Nebraska was crimsoned with the blood of a third.

“We’ve roasted ’em, Tecumseh,” said the hunter, as the steed paused in the water to slake his burning thirst. “They can’t stand afore ye, horse, they can’t do it, by Joshua! Now we’ll go back and look for the boys.”

A moment later Frontier Shack was galloping back to the fire.

He found Charley Shafer on his knees, supported by his stronger friend, George Long.

Frontier Shack dismounted and knelt before the twain.

“As weak as kittens, almost,” he said, in a kindly tone; “and dash me, if I didn’t reach these diggin’s in the nick o’ time. Them devils might hev’ known that ye couldn’t play and dance forever; but ye’ll live to pay ’em back!”

“I hope so, sir,” said George, his eyes lighting up with vengeance. “Don’t you want to pay the dogs back, Charley?”

“Yes,” was the feeble answer. “Every dog has his day, George.”

“How came ye hare?” suddenly broke in the frontiersman. “Ye came out with a train, I suppose.”

“Yes; we were attacked this day about noon. It was a terrible massacre.”

“Who led the Pawnees?—for Pawnees, of course, the red dogs were.”

“A white man—the ‘Dandy Demon of the Plains,’ I should call him.”

Frontier Shack gritted his teeth.

“We’ll talk about that scoundrel—Tom Kyle—some other time,” he said. “How many escaped the butchery?”

“Three persons, besides ourselves. They were Mr. Denison, Government agent, his daughter Mabel, and his niece, Miss Aiken. After the massacre the band divided; the larger portion went northward with the three; we fell to the lot of the minority.”

“Where did that organ come from?”

“An Italian was crossing the plains with the emigrants, to try his fortune in the land of gold.”

“And he’s found it afore he got there,” said the hunter, with a strange smile. “He’d hev’ done better on Broadway, I think. But, my boys, ye weren’t emigrants; yer clothes—”

He paused suddenly, ashamed to proceed.

“No, we were not emigrants,” answered George Long, glancing at his companion with a smile, which was followed by a mortifying blush.

“We are runaways; our parents live in Cincinnati, Ohio, and are well to do in the world.”

“Then, why did you leave home and seek this death-land?” asked Shackelford, the stern part of his nature getting uppermost.

“I will tell you the truth,” said George, looking him squarely in the eyes. “We came hither to shoot white buffaloes.”

For a moment the old hunter stared blankly into the youthful faces before him, then he rose to his feet and gave a long whistle of profound wonder and astonishment.

The boys watched him anxiously.

For several minutes he look vacantly toward the south, and then a ludicrous smile overspread his countenance.

“Who told you about white buffaloes?” he asked, stooping again.

“No one, sir. We read about them in Gregg’s ‘Commerce of the Prairies.’”

“And you believed it?”

“Why—yes!”

Another long whistle which ended in a laugh.

“I’ve heard of wild-goose chases afore,” said the hunter; “but this beats all of ’em. White buffler! Thet Gregg’s ahead o’ me, and I’ve seen the plains and prairies from the Platte to the Santa Fe. And I’ve seen buffler, too, boys; but nary a white one. We’ve got white horses, white foxes, and the like out here;” but, a short pause, “Gregg may be right. I don’t call any man a liar till he is proven one.”

The young hunters took courage at this last remark.

“I wish you boys war at home in Ohio,” said the frontiersman; “but ye’re here, and I’m goin’ to take care of ye. We’ll strike Fort Laramie one o’ these days, and then home ye go! But, we’re in the jaws of death yet, and mebbe two more Ohio scalps and one Maryland one, may hang at the Loup’s belt afore the week’s out. We’ll go now; Tecumseh can carry three, I reckon.”

“But hold,” cried Charley Shafer. “What will become of those girls—they’re in a demon’s clutches.”

“Yer right, boy,” said the scout of the Platte; “but I guess we’ll let ’em be.”

“No, no!” cried both boys in a single breath. “They shall not be his.”

Frontier Shack smiled:

“Boys, yer the true grit!” he cried, “jest the chaps to hunt white bufflers. The girls shan’t be Tom Kyle’s long. He can muster three thousand red wolves. We’ll face him—the terror of the Plains—and we’ll free his prisoners, or—”

“Die in the attempt!”

The old hunter caught the spirit that animated the breasts of the youths.

“Yes! yes! I’m growin’ tired of this life,” he said, “and I might as well die fighting the White Pawnee as trappin’ beaver.”

The next moment he spoke to Tecumseh, and, despite the load he carried, the noble horse dashed away like an antelope.

“I’ll crease two splendid horses for ye, boys,” he said, “and then, for Tom Kyle’s pris’ners and—white bufflers!”

The last words were clothed in irony, and they set the two boys to thinking anxiously.

They had chased an ignis fatuus over twelve hundred miles of territory—to die, perhaps, at the Pawnee stake.